She hesitates. “Do you want to notify the father?”
I don’t answer.
Just shake my head.
Because I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Back home, I pull up the flight sim archives.
His profile pops up first.
KAZIMIR, D. — Ranked Logs (17)
I click.
And then I just sit there, watching the footage. Not the scores. Not the maneuvers.
Just him.
The way his hands moved on the controls. The way his mouth quirked before a difficult run. The intense focus that made the room seem too small to hold him.
I let it play for too long.
Then I start deleting.
One by one.
Not because I want to forget.
But because I can’t keep pretending he’s still here.
His voice. His grin. His damn dumb jokes. His stupid nicknames. The way he held me that night like I was more than just bone and duty.
Gone.
I delete the files.
Then I delete his profile from the wall display—the one I used to keep open during drills, tracking progress. Watching him climb the ranks like a storm rising.
The screen flickers back to standard rotation.
Empty.
Clean.
Cold.
I want to scream.
But I don’t.
I walk to my closet. Pull out the old locket.
It’s tarnished now. Scratched. But it still opens.
Inside, folded so small it’s nearly unreadable, is the note he left after that first night.
No regrets. Just truth.
