The rain started early that morning, soft at first, then heavier. It drummed against the window in slow, even beats. Ethan sat at the kitchen table in a faded gray T-shirt, staring at a blank piece of paper. Lily was still asleep in the next room. Chance lay at his feet, breathing quietly. The world outside was blurred and gray.

He had thought about doing this for a long time, writing something he’d never send. A letter to his brother. He didn’t even know why today felt different, but it did. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was time.

He picked up the pen and began to write.

Hey, Noah.

It’s been almost seven years. You’d hate that I’m counting. You’d say I should stop keeping track, stop living by ghosts and memories. But I don’t know how to stop. You were the best part of me, and when you left, everything else got smaller. The house, the air, my own skin.

He stopped, stared at the words. The ink bled slightly into the paper. He wrote again.

I kept working because it was easier than feeling anything. I thought if I saved enough people, maybe it would make up for the one I couldn’t save. I told myself that was purpose. But really, it was punishment. Every shift. Every code. Every body. I made it a sentence I had to serve.

And then she showed up.

He smiled faintly.

Lily. You’d like her. She’s too honest for her own good. She doesn’t let me hide. She reminds me that living isn’t a betrayal. That peace doesn’t mean forgetting. She found me when I was still half gone and decided not to walk away. I didn’t think people like her existed anymore.

He paused again, hearing the faint sound of movement from the bedroom. Lily’s steps were slow, sleepy. She appeared in the doorway, hair messy, eyes still soft from sleep. “You’re up early,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you writing?”

He hesitated, then said, “A letter.”

“To who?”

He looked down at the page. “My brother.”

She didn’t move closer, just nodded. “You want me to leave you alone?”

“No,” he said. “Stay.”

She walked over and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. He picked up the pen again.

I used to think you’d be disappointed in me for not moving on faster. For holding onto everything. But I think I get it now. Maybe grief isn’t something you outgrow. Maybe it just changes shape. It becomes part of the rhythm. It becomes the silence between things.

I miss you. But I think I’m finally okay with missing you. It doesn’t hurt the same way. It just… is.

He set the pen down. His hand was trembling. Lily walked over, placed her hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Actually, yeah.”

She picked up the paper, read it silently, then set it back down. “You’re going to send it?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s not for the mail. It’s for me.”

“Then keep it,” she said. “Or burn it. Either way, it’s yours now.”

He smiled. “You always know what to say.”

“I just listen.”

He stood and wrapped his arms around her. She fit easily there, like she had always belonged. The rain outside softened again. For a while, they stayed like that—no talking, no movement. Just breathing.

Later, they went out for a walk. The rain had slowed to a mist, the streets slick and shining under the morning light. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t have to. Lily slipped her hand into his pocket and held his fingers.

At a small park nearby, they stopped under a tree. Ethan pulled the letter from his jacket pocket. “I think I know what to do with it,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He knelt down, found a small patch of dirt near the roots, and dug a shallow space with his hands. He placed the folded paper inside, covered it gently with earth.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he said. “It doesn’t need to go anywhere else.”

She nodded. “He’d like that.”

He looked at her. “Yeah. I think he would.”

They stood there for a long moment, listening to the soft sound of water dripping from the branches. Then she said, “You ready for breakfast?”

He laughed. “Always.”

They walked back to the apartment hand in hand. The rain started again, but they didn’t hurry. The air smelled clean, new.

Inside, Lily made coffee while Ethan fed Chance. The dog wagged his tail, dripping water all over the kitchen floor. “He’s a mess,” she said.

“He fits in.”

She smiled. “He really does.”

They ate together at the same table where the letter had started. The paper was gone, but the air felt lighter somehow. Ethan reached across the table and took her hand. “You know,” he said, “for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s because you stopped living in the past.”

He looked at her, voice quiet. “You helped me do that.”

“You did it yourself,” she said. “I just reminded you how.”

He leaned back, smiled. “You always make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” she said. “But it’s worth it.”

After breakfast, they sat on the couch with the windows open, the rain still whispering outside. Lily rested her head on his shoulder. “What happens next?” she asked.

He thought about it, then said, “We keep showing up. For the job. For each other. For whatever comes.”

She nodded. “That sounds good to me.”

The day went quiet again, peaceful in a way that felt earned.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring—another shift, another emergency, another moment that could break or rebuild them. But for now, in that small apartment, with her beside him and the city alive outside, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Whole.

He leaned over, kissed her hair, and whispered, “Thank you.”

She smiled against his chest. “You’re welcome.”

And that was enough.