Morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, soft and golden, casting long, lazy beams across the worn wooden floors. Evelina Skylar stood barefoot near the stove, her black hair tied back in a loose braid, a smudge of flour on her cheek and apron strings dangling behind her. She was laughing—genuinely laughing, a sound too rare these days—as she leaned sideways, her body dodging a splash of pancake batter that had just erupted from a mixing bowl.
Across from her, standing on a kitchen chair for height, Lily gripped a whisk with both tiny hands, her face set in a calm, serious expression. Batter clinged to her sleeves. Her jet-black hair had escaped its usual twin tails, falling in wisps into her face. She blinked slow and muttered under her breath.
"Lily was being careful," she said flatly, eyes focused on the spilled batter, a small, sticky puddle on the counter.
Evelina reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her daughter's ear, her gold eyes still crinkled with mirth, a fleeting joy that felt fragile.
"I know you were, sweetheart," she said softly, "but the bowl had other plans."
There was a moment where their eyes met. Lily's expression didn't change, but she tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, and for Evelina, that was good as a smile. She turned back to the stovetop, carefully flipping a pancake that had became a little too dark around the edges.
Behind her, Lily stepped down from the chair and padded toward the counter, dragging her plush bear by one arm.
"Bear says these are burnt," she announced, her tiny voice holding all the conviction of a judge.
Evelina looked over her shoulder, mock offended. "Tell Bear he can make his own breakfast next time."
Lily turned toward the bear. "Did you hear that?" she whispered, her voice conspiratorial. "Mommy's angry now."
Evelina bit back a laugh, a sharp, sudden pain in her throat, and shook her head, flipping the last pancake onto a plate. The kitchen was a mess. Flour dusted the floor like light snow. A cracked egg lay half-wiped on the counter, a pale, sticky smear. Pancake mix smeared the cupboard doors and trailed in sticky drips down the front of Lily's pajamas.
But for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Evelina didn't care. Ash had called on New Year's Eve. A short call. Scratchy, filled with static. But it was his voice. He was still alive. Somewhere in Afghanistan, deep in a mission he couldn't talk about, but alive.
"Three more months," he had said, those words clinging to her like a lifeline. "Tell Lily I'll be home for breakfast. And mean it."
Evelina had written it down. She had folded the words into her heart, a sacred promise, and slept easier since, the shadows of dread pushed back by that fragile hope.
Lily climbed back onto her chair and stared down at the stack of pancakes.
"Daddy makes his circle better," she said quietly, her voice a small, innocent blade.
Evelina froze. Her hand tightened around the spatula, knuckles whitening. A coldness, sudden and sharp, seeped into her bones.
She turned and smiled, but it was tight at the corners, a strained mask. Her voice wavered only slightly, barely a tremble. "Mommy's trying her best."
Lily nodded solemnly. "Lily knows."
The doorbell rang.
It was a crisp, sudden sound—too clean, too precise for the soft bubble of their morning, for the fragile hope she clung to. Evelina glanced toward the front hallway, brows knitting together, a knot of unease twisting in her gut. "Who could that be?"
Lily didn't answer. She just looked up, holding Bear a little closer to her chest, her small face mirroring Evelina's sudden fear.
Evelina wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out of the kitchen. The floor creaked faintly beneath her as she moved down the hallway. The old clock in the living room ticked in steady rhythm, but something inside her chest had gone still. Quiet. Like a bird sensing a storm before it breaks, a silence that screamed.
Through the frosted glass of the front door, she seen the shape of two men.
Uniforms.
The breath caught in her throat, a gasp trapped somewhere deep inside. Not Ash. Not Kyle. Not Ramon or Buck or the younger one, Park.
Dress uniforms.
She opened the door.
A man stood there with a shaved head and square jaw, his age somewhere near forty, though the lines around his eyes looked older, etched with a weariness that chilled her. He wore the crisp Class A dress uniform of a U.S. Army Major, every ribbon and medal gleaming sharply under the winter sun, cold and bright like shattered glass. Beside him stood a chaplain—tall, thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tight-lipped expression, his gaze shadowed. He held a folded cap in his hands, clutched tight, like a shield against the pain he was about to deliver.
The Major straightened. His voice, when it came, was flat. "Mrs. Evelina Skylar?"
Evelina didn't speak. Something inside her was screaming, a primal shriek, but her body had turned to stone, frozen in the doorway, waiting for the blow.
"Yes," she whispered, the sound thin, reedy, barely a breath.
"I'm Major Thomas Ward," the man said, his voice flat, mechanical, rehearsed, like a broken record. "This is Chaplain Mark Preston."
The chaplain gave a small nod. His eyes flicked toward the floor, then back to her face, a flicker of profound sorrow she tried not to see.
Evelina's hands curled into fists, her knuckles whitening, sharp points of bone against taut skin.
"No," she said. The word was barely audible, a desperate plea, a whisper of defiance against the inevitable.
"I regret to inform you—"
"No!" she repeated. Louder this time. Sharper. Her whole body recoiled from the threshold, as if the air around them was poisonous.
"Captain Ash Skylar was killed in action on January fourth, during a classified operation in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. His body was not recovered. He is listed as missing, presumed dead. I'm very sorry for your loss."
Behind her, Lily appeared in the hallway. She stood barefoot, one arm wrapped tightly around Bear, her hair a tangled mess, and her pajamas flecked with flour. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on the men, then on her mother's drained face.
Evelina didn't cry. She didn't fall to her knees. She didn't scream or plead or collapse. She just stared. Eyes wide. Skin drained of all color, like a canvas washed clean of life.
"No," she said again, but it was quieter now. As if the word had lost its meaning, dissolving into the crushing silence.
The chaplain stepped forward, his voice low and practiced, heavy with a grief that wasn't his own. "If there's anything we can do—grief counseling, funeral arrangements—"
"He's not dead." Her voice was fierce, a desperate refusal.
"Mrs. Skylar—"
"You didn't find him. You said so. You didn't find him." Her voice cracked, a raw, jagged sound.
Major Ward's eyes flicked down, then back up, a flicker of pity she couldn't bear. "There was a confirmed airstrike following the mission. No survivors were found in the area."
Evelina's shoulders trembled, a single, violent shudder.
Lily took a small step forward, her voice a faint whisper, chillingly calm. "Where's Daddy?"
The men looked at her and said nothing. Their silence was a roar.
"Mommy?" Lily's voice was still flat, still calm, but her grip on Bear had turned rigid, her small knuckles white. "Why are they lying?"
Evelina turned and sank to her knees, arms outstretched, a silent prayer. Lily walked into them without hesitation, her small body a sudden, warm anchor in the freezing void.
Her daughter smelled like syrup and flour, a sweet, innocent scent that tore at Evelina's heart.
Evelina pressed her face into Lily's hair and closed her eyes, shutting out the world.
She didn't sob. She didn't scream. She just held on. Arms tight. As if the second she let go, the world would come apart, shatter into a million irreparable pieces.
The Major looked away, his gaze fixed on some distant point. The chaplain swallowed hard and shifted his feet on the porch, his discomfort a tangible thing.
"We'll be in touch," Major Ward said, quietly now, his voice a fading echo.
They left without another word. The door clicked shut behind them, a soft, final sound that sealed Evelina's fate.
Evelina remained on the floor, curled around her daughter, rocking back and forth in silence, a silent, desperate lament.
Outside, the January wind picked up, brushing through the bare trees, a whisper of desolation. The sun still shone on the kitchen window, still glinted off the chaos of breakfast left behind, a mocking symbol of the life that had just ended.
And the house, for the first time in a long time, went completely, utterly still. A tomb.
***
The next morning was too quiet. A silence that pressed in, suffocating.
Even the radio in the car, usually turned low to some classical station Evelina barely registered, was off. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary as she pulled into the hospital parking lot, her knuckles white, aching. The sky hung low, overcast and gray, with the promise of cold rain that hadn't yet come. Everything looked like it had been drained of color — or maybe it was just her eyes, blurred and heavy, seeing only shades of despair.
She had dropped Lily off an hour earlier. The day care worker had said something gentle, something kind. Evelina couldn't remember what. She had kissed Lily on the forehead and left as her daughter stared after her, silent, with Bear clutched to her chest like a shield, a silent accusation.
Now she stood in the hospital lobby, not knowing what to say or what she even expected, just a desperate need for answers.
The front desk nurse, a young man with a mole near his left cheekbone and tired eyes, recognized the name when she gave it. "Skylar," she said. "I'm looking for Captain Skylar's unit. I was told they were treated here."
His fingers paused over the keyboard. His eyes flicked to her face, filled with a familiar, sickening pity. "You're his wife?"
She nodded, a stiff, unwilling motion.
"They're up in Recovery Ward B, second floor. Only four of them. The rest…" He trailed off, giving her a look that mixed sympathy and discomfort, a look that spoke of unspeakable horrors. "The others didn't made it."
She thanked him in a voice she barely recognized, a hollow echo, and made her way up the stairs. The elevator felt too slow, too confining. Her legs needed to move, to outrun the pain that chased her.
The hallway on the second floor smelled like antiseptic and bleach, a sterile scent that mocked the chaos inside her. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, a relentless hum against her raw nerves. She walked past a nurse with a clipboard, past a janitor mopping near the vending machines, until she reached a room with the door propped open and voices inside.
"…he dragged Park out himself, under fire."
"I told you. I was concussed. Last thing I remember is the flashbang and someone pulling me."
"That was Ash. Had to be."
The voices stopped when she stepped in. Four men looked up. Their faces, etched with exhaustion and pain, were suddenly wary.
One was reclined in bed, his arm in a sling and his face bandaged over his left brow — Kyle Redding. The communications specialist. His mouth opened slightly as he saw her, a silent, desperate word escaping.
Beside him, sitting upright with a notebook resting on his knee, was Buck Crowley. Warrant Officer. He looked older than his thirty-five years now. Paler. Tired. His black hair was cropped tight, but his eyes — sharp and intelligent — softened when they saw her, a shared grief flickering between them.
Ramon Delacruz sat in a wheelchair by the window. Stocky. Muscular. His left leg in a cast from thigh to ankle. A cane leaned beside him, untouched. He nodded once. Quiet. His eyes held a depth of sorrow that made her stomach clench.
The last was Julian Park. Barely twenty-five. He was sitting on the edge of the window bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His hands trembled when he looked up, like a frightened bird.
Evelina stepped in slowly. The air in the room changed, thickened with unspoken pain, with unspoken truths.
"Mrs. Skylar," Buck said, standing partway, a gesture of respect she barely registered. "Ma'am."
"I just… I just wanted to talk to someone. To know what happened." Her voice wasn't steady. But it didn't break either, held together by a thread of pure will.
Kyle gestured to the chair near his bed. "You can sit."
She didn't. Her legs were rooted to the spot. "What happened to Ash?"
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. No one looked at her directly. Their gazes skirted around her, avoiding the raw pain in her eyes.
Ramon leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. "He saved all of us. That's what happened." His voice was low, filled with a deep, crushing gratitude.
"I want to hear everything." Her voice was a demand, unyielding.
Buck looked over at the others, then took a slow, deliberate breath. "It was supposed to be a recon-infil, low profile. But something was off. They knew we were coming. Whole valley lit up before we even hit the treeline. Full ambush."
Kyle muttered, his voice hoarse, "IEDs, RPGs, AKs, everything they had. We were boxed in. It was a hell."
"Ash had point," Ramon added. "He was already moving by the time the second blast hit. Didn't wait. Didn't freeze. He was getting us out before the rest of us even knew how bad it was."
"Crowley got hit in the shoulder. I was dazed," Kyle said. "Park was in shock. Ramon had shrapnel. Tucker was bleeding out. We weren't in any shape to fight."
"Tucker…" Evelina's voice dropped, barely a whisper. "Corporal Tucker didn't made it."
Ramon's jaw clenched. A muscle pulsed in his cheek.
"They got him to the bird," Buck said, his eyes on the ceiling now, as if seeing the scene replay. "Ash carried him. Literally threw him onto the ramp. But his pulse was already fading. Tucker coded in the air. He was gone."
Evelina looked at them one by one, her gaze searching, desperate for a different answer. "Why didn't Ash get on?"
No one spoke. The silence stretched, unbearable.
Buck leaned back, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "He went back for the intel. We had a hard drive. Primary objective. But it was with our spotter drone when the thing went down. Ash told us to get clear. That he'd retrieve it."
"He was already bleeding," Kyle muttered, his voice barely audible, haunted. "Gunshot to the side. Didn't slow him down."
"He didn't come back," Park said softly, his voice fragile. Like glass. It trembled, then broke. "We saw the airstrike hit. Ash was still on comms with command, marking targets. Calling in fire. Calm. Focused. Like he always was."
Ramon's voice was low, rough. "We heard him say, 'Final mark confirmed. Exfil secure. Clear skies.' Then the B-52 hit. Then silence. Just… silence."
Evelina stood perfectly still. Her fingers dug into her palms, sharp, burning crescents.
"You're sure he was still in the blast zone?" Her voice was thin, desperate, grasping at straws.
No one answered.
"Tell me." The word was a raw demand, a cry from her soul.
Buck looked at her, eyes hard but tired, filled with a terrible certainty. "I've known Ash Skylar a long time. He's the most capable, ruthless, resilient son of a bitch I've ever served with. But no one survives what happened out there."
"You don't know that." Her voice, a fierce whisper of denial.
"We owe him our lives," Kyle added, his voice raspy with emotion. "All of us. But that's what he did. He gave his to save us. That's the kind of man he is."
Evelina turned away, hands trembling at her sides, a cold tremor running through her.
She stepped to the window. Outside, clouds drifted over the gray parking lot, a reflection of the desolation inside her. She breathed slowly. Deeply. Trying to anchor herself.
"They haven't found him," she whispered, her voice barely there. "No body. No ID tags. No fragments."
"That area was a crater," Park said, voice shaking, haunted. "He's gone. Vaporized."
Evelina's shoulders lifted with a slow breath, a battle for composure. "I don't believe it."
Ramon wheeled himself a little closer, his face etched with concern. "Ma'am. You don't want to hold onto false hope."
She turned, and for the first time, there were tears. But they didn't fall. They clung to her lashes, unshed, like fragile crystals. "I've waited for Ash for months. Every day, every night, I waited for his voice. Then he called. On New Year's. He told me he was coming home."
"He didn't know," Buck said gently, his voice thick with sympathy.
"I know my husband," Evelina said, her voice fiercely possessive. "And he doesn't break promises."
They looked at her. All four of them. And in that moment, none of them had anything left to say. Their silence was a testament to her unyielding, desperate faith.
Evelina stepped toward the door. "I'm sorry for your losses. And thank you for your service. But I will not bury a ghost."
She left without waiting for a response, walking away from their pity, from their crushing certainty.
And behind her, the silence of four survivors lingered in the hospital room, heavy and final. A silence filled with unspoken pain.
***
The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to make her chest tighten, a constricting band around her heart.
Evelina sat curled on the couch, knees drawn up, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders though the house wasn't cold. Her eyes hadn't left the window in over an hour. Outside, the street was quiet, the winter sun already tilting westward, casting long, mournful shadows. Dry tree branches swayed gently in the breeze, casting shadows that moved like reaching fingers across the front yard, clawing at the light.
She hadn't turned on the TV. Couldn't read. Couldn't clean. She had walked in circles earlier — from kitchen to hall to living room — pausing every few steps like she'd forgot why she stood, her mind a frantic, empty loop.
The house smelled faintly of maple syrup and lavender detergent. A scent that used to comfort her, used to wrap her in warmth. Now it made her sick, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.
Her hands tightened on the edge of the blanket, digging her nails into the fabric. She had gone to the hospital, she had looked those men in the eye — seen the honesty, the grief. But still. Still, a part of her waited for the phone to ring. Waited for boots on the porch, for a knock that meant rescue, not ruin.
She thought of Ash's voice. Scratchy, distant. Still hers. "Tell Lily I'll be home for breakfast. And mean it." A phantom warmth in her soul.
A car door shut outside.
Evelina blinked and sat upright, a jolt of raw fear. Her heart started to pound. Not fast — but hard. Deep and slow, like war drums in her chest, each beat echoing the name of her lost hope. The blanket slipped off her shoulders as she moved to the window, parting the curtain with trembling fingers, her breath held tight.
A black government sedan sat at the curb. Two men in dress uniforms stepped out.
Her breath caught, a strangled sound in her throat. She stepped back, stumbling. "No." Her voice was barely audible, a desperate, broken prayer.
The knock came a moment later. Three sharp raps on the front door, each one a hammer blow to her chest.
She stood in the hallway, staring at it like it might explode, like it held the very end of her world. The first time they came, it shattered her world. But this—This felt different. Heavier. More final. A nail being driven into a coffin.
She reached for the doorknob with a hand that shook so violently she could barely grasp it.
Major Thomas Ward stood there again, his face lined, jaw set tighter than before. The chaplain, Mark Preston, stood beside him, lips pressed into a thin line, his cap in his hands again, his gaze downcast, unwilling to meet her eyes.
But this time, they weren't empty-handed. Between them was a black military-issued backpack. The fabric was scorched along one edge, raw and blackened. The straps had been repaired roughly, crudely. And clipped to the zipper was a set of dog tags.
Her throat closed. Her vision blurred.
"I'm sorry to disturb you again, Mrs. Skylar," Major Ward said, his voice softer this time, edged with a grim resignation. "May we come in?"
She stepped aside without a word, her body moving on its own.
They entered slowly, heavily. The chaplain glanced around, his eyes soft with quiet sorrow, a compassion she felt like a physical weight. The major carried the backpack carefully, like it was something sacred. Or fragile. Irreparable.
They stood in the living room. No one sat. Evelina folded her arms, holding her body together with sheer force, a desperate attempt to contain the tremor that threatened to consume her.
"We recovered items from the battlefield," Major Ward said, his voice low, respectful, a litany of unspeakable loss. "This was located on the northern ridge, about seventy meters from the blast zone. It took our search team four days to secure and confirm."
He handed her the backpack.
She didn't move at first. Her hands felt numb, unwilling to accept the crushing weight of finality. Then she reached out and took it. Her fingers brushed the burned edge, rough and sharp against her skin. The material was rough. It smelled faintly of smoke, metal, and dust, the scent of his last moments.
The dog tags clinked as they swung, a cold, metallic sound, like a bell tolling for the dead.
She stared at them.
Skylar, Ash H.
O POS
Catholic
US Army
Her knees nearly buckled. A wave of dizziness washed over her.
"We've also confirmed DNA from remnants found at the site," the chaplain said gently, his voice a quiet, mournful whisper. "There is no doubt. I'm sorry, Mrs. Skylar. Captain Skylar is confirmed KIA."
She didn't cry. She sat down, slowly, on the edge of the couch with the backpack in her lap, its weight crushing. Her fingers moved across the front pocket, then paused on the zipper, dreading what she would find inside.
"Was this all?" she asked, her voice thin and hollow, barely a breath.
Major Ward's voice stayed calm. Respectful. "Some personal effects were unrecoverable. The rest is in here."
Evelina opened the bag. Inside, packed with quiet care by someone she'd never meet, were the final fragments of a life lived far from home, of a love torn away.
His field journal. Half the pages charred along the spine, the words blackened and unreadable.
A photo. Her and Lily, taken in the backyard last spring. He'd tucked it into a clear plastic sleeve, protecting it even through the hell he endured.
A bloodstained scarf she recognized. She had sent it to him in a care package two Christmases ago. The edges were burned, dark and ragged.
His watch. Stopped at 02:37. Frozen in time.
A letter. Folded, but never sent. Addressed simply:
Eve
Her hands trembled, a violent tremor that shook her whole body. She didn't open it. Not yet. The dog tags rested on top, quiet and cold, a chilling weight.
The chaplain knelt slightly, still holding his cap, his eyes full of a profound sadness. "We understand if you don't want to talk right now. We'll be in contact with the proper channels regarding honors and burial options."
"There won't be a burial," Evelina said. Her voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. Cold. "You don't bury ashes when you never found the fire."
The major gave a small nod, his jaw tight. "Understood."
She didn't look at them again. After a few moments, they quietly excused themselves and let the front door close behind them with a soft click, leaving her alone with the ghosts.
Evelina sat in silence. The backpack sat in her lap, heavy and final, a stone on her chest. She set it aside and picked up the dog tags. Ran her thumb across the etched letters like they might speak if she touched them long enough, if she pleaded hard enough.
Then she opened the letter. It was written in Ash's hand — precise, sharp, deliberate.
Eve,
If you're reading this, then it means I didn't come home. I don't know how, or why, or what happened in between. But I need you to hear this, etched into your soul.
I never stopped loving you. Not one breath. Not through the noise, the silence, the fire, or the darkness. You were the last thing I thought of when I closed my eyes at night and the only thing that gave me the strength to open them again.
Tell Lily she was the reason I ran faster. Shot straighter. Came back alive as long as I did. Tell her that her daddy didn't die afraid. I died protecting something that matters, protecting her, protecting you.
And tell her I'll still be there in the morning sun, and in the hush when the world is quiet. I'll still be with her every time she laughs. With you, every time you remember.
Don't let them turn me into a ghost. I'm not gone. I'm just… ahead.
With you always,
Ash
The paper crumpled slightly in her grip, a soft, tearing sound. She folded it back carefully. Placed it in her lap. Then she curled forward, slowly, folding herself around the tags, the letter, the burned scarf, the last scent of him, and let the soundless grief spill over her in waves that made no sound, only an excruciating internal ache.
She didn't scream. She didn't sob.
But she shook. Quietly. For a long, long time. Her body wracked with tremors, silent, profound.
And when the clock struck four, Evelina stood up, wiped her face, the tears still stubbornly unshed, and went to pick up Lily from day care — holding Ash's tags in her coat pocket like an anchor she didn't know how to let go of, a weight that would forever bind her to the man she would never see again.