His father held court near the bar, surrounded by othersenior officers. Discussing infrastructure, policy, the state of the military. Business as usual.
Elliot observed him from across the room.
His father caught his eye and gestured him over. He went, because that was what he did. Obeyed.
"General Shaw," he heard one of the men say as he approached. "We were discussing the situation in—" He stopped when he saw Elliot, and offered a respectful nod. "Captain Shaw. My condolences again."
"Thank you, sir."
The conversation resumed. Elliot listened to them discuss troop movements and strategic positioning like his mother hadn't just been buried.
His father's hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. "My son. Following in his father’s footsteps. Already a captain at his age. He'll be a major before he's thirty-five."
Elliot kept his expression neutral. His father had his career mapped out to the year.
"Impressive," one of the men said. "You must be very proud, General."
"I am." His father's grip tightened slightly on Elliot's shoulder. "He knows what's important."
Elliot wanted to ask: do you? Do you know what’s important?
But he didn't. He let his father display him like a trophy as he had done many times before.
The reception dragged on for another two hours. More expressions of sympathy and ‘sorry for your loss.’ More small talk. By the time he escaped, his shoulders sagged. He dragged a hand down his face as if it could wipe the day away.
He got in his car and drove back to Arlington.
With the earlier crowds long gone, the cemetery settledwith a calmness that matched what his mother would’ve wanted. Wet grass muffled his footsteps as he trudged through rows of white headstones, identical and precisely spaced.
He found her grave easily. Freshly turned dark earth jutted against the surrounding grass. No headstone yet, just a small marker with her name.
Isabelle Marie Shaw.
His head bent forward. The sky had gone gray while he was at the reception. A light drizzle cooled the back of his neck.
Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out the folded paper. Half a page. He'd read it so many times he had it memorized.
He unfolded it. Dragged his eyes over the words.
Then he folded it back up and put it away.
"I don't know why I wrote that," he said. His voice came out strange in the open air, too loud and too quiet at the same time. "You would have hated it. Very official. Very proper." He paused. "Very him."
The drizzle thickened slightly.
"I don't know how to do this without you." The words came out before he'd decided to say them. "I've been standing in that room all day smiling at people I don't know. You should’ve been there to tell me which ones to avoid and which ones actually matter." His throat tightened. "You should be here."
A crow cawed somewhere in the trees. The rain sloshed down steadily now, darkening his shoulders.
"I don’t know how to keep my promise," he mumbled. The rain soaked through his jacket, but he was not ready to leave yet.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Elliot went still.
"Je savais que tu serais là."The voice was soft, accented, unmistakably familiar.I knew you'd be here.
He turned.
