Mag-log inThe house was quieter that afternoon.Most of the relatives who had crowded the place since Raymond’s return had finally gone home, leaving behind only the faint smell of food and the scattered evidence of celebration, empty cups, folded chairs, forgotten conversations lingering in the air.Tricia stood on the balcony outside Raymond’s room, watching the street below.Cars moved lazily along the road.People walked past without knowing how drastically her life had changed in the last few days.Behind her, the sliding door opened.Raymond stepped outside.“You disappear a lot,” he said.She glanced back at him.“I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”“I always keep track of you.”The words were simple.But they made her chest tighten.He leaned against the railing beside her.For a moment neither of them spoke.The evening air was warm, carrying the distant sounds of the city.Raymond studied her from the corner of his eye.“You’ve been quiet today.”“So have you.”“I’ve been observ
The house had returned to its usual rhythm by the next morning.But something invisible had shifted.Tricia felt it the moment she stepped into the living room.Raymond was sitting near the window, a cup of coffee in his hand. Morning light fell across his shoulders, making the faint scar along his temple more noticeable.He looked stronger today.Less like someone who had nearly died.More like the Raymond she had always known, steady, composed, observant.He glanced up when she entered.“There you are,” he said.She smiled faintly.
Three days after Raymond returned, the world still didn’t feel real to Tricia.People had come and gone from the house since morning, family, officers, old friends, neighbors bringing food and loud relief. Everyone wanted to see the man who had supposedly died and somehow walked back into life.By evening, the noise finally thinned.The house grew quiet.Tricia stood in the kitchen staring at the sink, though there was nothing there to see. Her mind still moved in circles around the same impossible truth.Raymond was alive.Alive meant everything had changed again.Footsteps sounded behind her.
The news reached her in the middle of the afternoon, several months later.Tricia had been sitting across from Mark at a café she barely remembered choosing. Her coffee was untouched. Mark had been talking, something about a new contract, something about moving forward, something about not looking back anymore.Her phone vibrated.She almost ignored it.Unknown number.She answered absently.“Hello?”Silence.Then:“Miss Tricia Watson…”A male voice. Official. Careful.“Yes?”“I’m calling regarding Colonel Raymond Stone.”Her heart stopped.The world slowed.Her fingers tightened around the phone.“I’m sorry,” the man continued. “There was an error in the earlier report. Colonel Stone survived the crash. He’s been stabilised and is being transferred home.”The café disappeared.The sound of cups. The quiet music. Mark’s voice.Everything vanished.“He… what?” she whispered.“Colonel Stone is alive.”Alive.Alive.Not a memory. Not a grave. Not a funeral.Alive.The phone slipped fro
The first night she let herself cry, Mark didn’t leave.He didn’t offer words of comfort at first. He just sat on the edge of the couch, close enough for her to lean against him, far enough to respect her space.Tricia’s tears soaked into his shirt. She didn’t care.“You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly. “Just… be.”She pressed her forehead to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat steadied her frantic one.“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she whispered.“I know,” Mark replied, voice low, patient. “I know.”The hours passed quietly. He didn’t speak more than necessary. He offered water, blankets, meals, small acts of care that felt monumental in her grief.And slowly, day by day, she began to lean on him. Not intentionally, but inevitably.One evening, she fell asleep on his shoulder in the living room.Mark watched her face, traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, and felt something stirring that went beyond friendship.It terrified him.Not because he shouldn’t feel it. Bec
It started with a headline.Tricia wasn’t looking for it.She was scrolling absent-mindedly that morning, half-awake, coffee untouched.Then she saw the notification:“Senior Peacekeeping Officer Confirmed Dead in Highway Explosion During State Transfer.”Her stomach dipped.Something cold slipped down her spine.She clicked.The article loaded slowly.Too slowly.The words blurred at first.Then sharpened.Colonel Raymond Stone...Her hand went numb.The cup slipped from her fingers and shattered across the floor.“No.”The word wasn’t loud.It barely escaped her.The article continued, official language, detached tone:… convoy vehicle overturned following a roadside explosive device… severe impact… declared deceased at the scene…She stopped reading.Her ears were ringing.This wasn’t how news works. This wasn’t how death works.There would be a call.There would be confirmation.There would be, Her phone vibrated. Unknown number.She answered on instinct.“Miss Watson?”“Yes.”“







