Darius woke before dawn, the way he still did most mornings. No alarm. Just the sudden snap of consciousness, heart already hammering like he was back on patrol, waiting for the next crack of small-arms fire that never came. The room was dark except for the thin gray light slipping under the blinds. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. The quilt was too warm, too soft. Everything here was too soft.
His left shoulder ached in that dull, familiar way—like someone had driven a spike through the joint and left it there to rust. He rolled onto his right side, slow, careful. The scar pulled tight across his back, a long, ragged line from shoulder blade to spine. He could still feel the ghost of shrapnel grinding under the skin when he moved wrong. Doctors called it "residual fragments." He called it a souvenir.
He sat up. Boots were still on from last night—he hadn't bothered to take them off. Habit from the sandbox: sleep ready to move. He unlaced them now, slow, methodical, the leather creaking. His socks were damp with sweat. The room smelled faintly of mothballs and the cedar chest in the corner where Mom kept old blankets.
Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the tick of the wall clock in the kitchen and the occasional groan of settling floorboards. Mom would be up soon—her shift at the diner started at six—but for now it was just him and the dark.
He padded to the dresser in bare feet, the wood cool against his soles. His old Marine Corps dress cover sat on top, still in its plastic bag from when he'd shipped it home. Next to it, the small wooden box Mom had mentioned yesterday. Dark walnut, brass latch. Dad's.
He hadn't opened it since the funeral.
Fingers hesitated on the lid. Then he flipped it.
Inside: a folded American flag, edges frayed from years of handling. A dog tag chain with two tags—one Dad's, one his own childhood set. A handful of yellowed letters tied with twine. A pocket Bible, spine cracked, pages marked with faded pencil notes. And at the bottom, a small black journal, leather cover worn smooth.
Darius lifted the journal. The cover smelled like old paper and dust. He opened to the first page.
Afghanistan, 2003. Day 47. Sand everywhere. Even in my teeth. Thinking about home. About Mom's cornbread. About the boy who's probably walking now. God, I hope he's walking.
Darius's throat tightened. He flipped a few more pages—more entries, some short, some long. Dates jumping years. Sketches in the margins: a crude drawing of their old truck, a stick-figure family under a tree. The last entry was dated two months before the Gulf War ended.
If I don't make it back, tell Darius his dad loved him. Tell him to be better than me.
He closed the journal. Set it back in the box like it might burn him.
Downstairs, the coffee maker gurgled to life. Mom was up.
He pulled on a fresh t-shirt—gray, plain, one of the few civilian things he still owned—and jeans. Left the boots off for now. Bare feet on the stairs felt strange, vulnerable.
Mom stood at the stove in her robe, hair still in rollers, humming "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and bacon grease. She turned when she heard him.
"Morning, baby. Sleep okay?"
He shrugged. "Enough, Ma."
She poured him a mug—black, no sugar. Handed it over. Their fingers brushed. Hers warm. His cold.
"You look at the box?"
He took a sip. Coffee was strong, bitter, perfect. "Yeah."
She nodded, like she'd expected that. Didn't push.
He sat at the table. She slid a plate in front of him: two eggs over easy, bacon crisp, toast buttered. Same breakfast she'd made him every Saturday when he was a kid.
"You gonna read the letters?" she asked, casual, like she was asking about the weather.
"Maybe."
She sat across from him, cradling her own mug. "They're mostly to me. Some to you. He wrote one every week he was gone. Even when he couldn't send 'em."
Darius stared into his coffee. Steam rose in lazy curls.
"He never told me half the shit in there," he said quietly.
Mom's eyes softened. "He didn't want you to worry. Thought he was protecting you."
"Worked great."
She reached over, touched his forearm. "You're not him, Darius."
He pulled back, just an inch. Not enough to hurt her. Just enough to breathe.
"I know, Ma."
She didn't argue. Just sipped her coffee and let the silence sit.
After breakfast she left for her shift, kissing his cheek on the way out. "Pie's in the fridge if you get hungry. Don't sit in this house all day, baby. Go walk. See the town."
He watched her drive off in the old blue Taurus, taillights fading down Maple.
Then he went back upstairs.
The journal was still on the dresser. He picked it up again. Flipped to a random page.
2005. Fallujah. Lost two today. Good men. I keep seeing their faces when I close my eyes. Wonder if Darius will ever know what this feels like. Hope he never does.
Darius's hand shook. Just once. He set the journal down hard.
Outside, the cicadas started up again, louder now that the sun was climbing.
He rubbed his scar through the t-shirt. Felt the ridge of it, the heat underneath.
Downstairs, he grabbed the duffel. Pulled out the bottle of pills the VA had given him. Oxy. Half-full. He stared at it for a long minute.
Then he opened the cabinet under the sink, shoved the bottle behind the drain cleaner, and closed the door.
He wasn't taking that shit today.
He wasn't taking it ever again if he could help it.
The house creaked around him, settling.
He stepped out onto the porch. Heat hit him like a wall. The swing chain rattled in the breeze.
He sat.
The wood was hot under his bare feet.
He leaned back, closed his eyes.
The cicadas screamed.
And for a minute—just a minute—the noise in his head matched the noise outside.
Almost like they understood each other.