The Ghost of Port Ashton

PART 1

They say you can’t outrun your shadow, but for three years, I’d done a hell of a job trying.

Port Ashton, Oregon, was the kind of town the world forgot. It sat on the edge of the continent like a jagged scar, battered by a gray, churning Pacific that matched the color of my soul. It was perfect. The fog here was thick enough to hide anything—even a woman who was supposed to be dead.

I adjusted the collar of my white uniform shirt, wincing as the fabric brushed against the fresh purple welt on my collarbone. It was ninety degrees outside, a rare heatwave for the coast, but I was buttoned up to my chin, sleeves rolled down and secured at the wrists. The locals thought I was just eccentric, or maybe hiding track marks. They didn’t know I was hiding a map of violence painted on my skin by the man who claimed to love me.

“Order up, Vera!”

Harlan’s voice scraped through the pass-through window, sounding like gravel in a blender. I snapped out of my trance.

“Coming, Harlan,” I replied, my voice soft. Meek. The voice of Vera the waitress, not Lieutenant Commander Larson.

I balanced the plate of fish and chips on my forearm, weaving through the worn vinyl booths of the Waypoint Diner. I moved with an efficiency that I tried hard to disguise as hustle, rather than tactical precision. Every step was measured. Every glance was a threat assessment I forced myself to ignore.

Old Pete was at Table Five, buried in a newspaper that screamed headlines about military exercises up the coast. My eyes snagged on the word “SEAL” before I forced them away.

“Here you go, Pete,” I murmured, sliding the plate down.

“Coffee, Vera,” he grunted, not looking up.

“Right away.”

This was my life now. The smell of stale grease, the sound of rain lashing against salt-crusted windows, and the dull, throbbing ache in my wrist where Desmond had grabbed me two nights ago. I was a ghost haunting a diner, invisible until someone needed a refill.

At 12:35 PM, the bell above the door jingled. My heart did that familiar stutter-step it did every time the door opened, a reflex I couldn’t deprogram.

It was Sheriff Donovan. Tall, weary, and willfully blind.

“Afternoon, Vera,” he said, sliding onto his stool. “The usual.”

“Coming right up, Sheriff.”

I poured the black coffee, my hand steady despite the tremors in my soul. As I reached across the counter, my sleeve rode up. Just an inch. It was enough.

The Sheriff’s eyes dropped. He saw the ring of blue and yellow bruising circling my wrist like a bracelet. He frowned, his gaze flicking up to mine.

“Everything okay, Vera?” he asked. The question was a script we’d read a dozen times.

“I’m fine,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. “Just clumsy. Hit my arm on the freezer door.”

Donovan stared at me. He knew. Everyone in this town knew Desmond Thorne had a temper that rose and fell with the tides of whiskey in his blood. But Desmond was a Thorne, and the Thornes owned the marina, half the real estate, and the town’s silence.

“Heard anything from Desmond?” the Sheriff asked, stirring sugar into his darkness.

“He’s been busy,” I said, wiping the counter, moving away. “Summer season.”

“Right. Busy.” Donovan took a sip. “Had some noise complaints from the marina last night.”

I froze, my back to him. Noise. Screaming. Breaking glass.

“I wouldn’t know,” I whispered. “I was here.”

The bell chimed again. This time, the air in the diner didn’t just shift; it evaporated.

Desmond walked in.

He sucked the oxygen right out of the room. He was handsome in that rugged, coastal way that fooled tourists—sun-streaked hair, a permanent tan, and a smile that didn’t reach his shark-dead eyes. He was flanked by Riker and Jasper, his two marina lackeys, both already smelling of midday beer.

“There she is,” Desmond boomed, his voice echoing off the linoleum. “Hiding from me, babe?”

Every head turned. Every head turned back. The collective spine of Port Ashton snapped in submission.

My stomach twisted into a cold knot. “What can I get you, Desmond?”

He strode over, bypassing the counter to corner me near the register. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around my bruised wrist. He squeezed. hard.

I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. Flinching was an admission of pain, and pain excited him.

“How about a smile?” he hissed, leaning in close. “Haven’t seen you in two days.”

“I’ve been working, Desmond.”

“Always working.” He laughed, looking back at his goons. “Remember when she used to be fun?”

He dug his thumb into the tender flesh over my radial artery. It took every ounce of my training—SEAL Team 3 medical discipline—not to shatter his windpipe.

“Please,” I whispered. “People are watching.”

“Let them watch,” he sneered. “I’m just talking to my girlfriend.”

“Kitchen closes in twenty minutes,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll get your beers.”

I pulled my arm away. He let me go, but his eyes promised retribution for the public dismissal.

I turned toward the coffee station, my hands shaking now. I needed to breathe. I needed to disappear.

Then, the bell chimed one more time.

The silence that followed wasn’t the fearful silence of Desmond’s arrival. It was different. Heavier. It was the silence of a predator entering a clearing.

I turned around, coffee pot in hand.

And my world ended.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the gray light of the Pacific, was Admiral Callaway Rhodes.

He was in his Dress Blues. The ribbons on his chest were a kaleidoscope of campaigns I knew by heart. His silver hair was cropped high and tight, his posture rigid as steel rebar. He looked exactly as he had three years ago, standing over my hospital bed in Germany before I vanished.

I froze. The coffee pot slipped from my fingers.

Crash.

The sound was like a gunshot. Hot liquid splashed across my ankles, shards of ceramic skittering across the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, dropping to my knees. “I’m sorry, I’ll get it.”

My hands were frantic, grabbing at the jagged glass. I sliced my palm. A line of bright crimson welled up, mixing with the dark coffee.

“No rush,” a voice said. A voice that commanded fleets.

I looked up. Admiral Rhodes was standing over me. He wasn’t looking at the mess. He was looking at me.

His eyes—steel gray and sharp as a scalpel—widened. Just a fraction. A micro-expression of shock that a civilian would miss, but I caught it. He recognized me.

“Know each other?”

Desmond’s voice cut through the tension, sharp with jealousy.

Rhodes didn’t blink. He tore his eyes away from me and looked at Desmond with the detached disinterest of a lion looking at a hyena.

“Just passing through,” Rhodes said, his tone smooth, practiced. “Naval exercises up the coast. Heard the fish and chips were worth the detour.”

Desmond narrowed his eyes, sensing a threat he couldn’t quantify. “Didn’t answer my question.”

“No,” I blurted out, standing up. I wrapped a napkin around my bleeding hand, applying pressure with clinical precision. “We’ve never met.”

The lie hung in the air, bloated and rotting.

Rhodes watched me bandage my hand. He watched the way I secured the dressing—a field knot, not a civilian bow. He walked to the counter and sat down.

“Table for one,” he said.

I retreated to the back, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He knows. He knows. I have to run. I have to leave tonight.

“You’re shaking, Vera,” Harlan whispered, handing me a broom. “You know him?”

“No,” I snapped. Then softer, “No. Just… startled.”

I went back out. I had to play the part. Just a waitress. Just a nobody.

I avoided Rhodes’ section, but his eyes were a physical weight on my skin. He watched me move. He watched me scan the exits. He watched me flinch when Riker dropped a fork.

Desmond was watching him watch me. The alcohol in his system was turning his insecurity into aggression.

“Hey!” Desmond slammed his hand on the table as I walked by. “Refill.”

I poured the beer. My sleeve rode up again as I reached across.

Desmond caught my arm. “Careful. Don’t want another accident.”

He squeezed the bruises. Harder this time. A warning.

“Let go, Desmond,” I whispered.

“I’ll let go when I’m ready,” he slurred. “Maybe I should ask your soldier friend over there why he can’t stop staring at my girl.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Please.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Rhodes was standing. He moved with a fluidity that belied his sixty years. He crossed the diner in three strides and stopped at Desmond’s table.

“I believe the lady asked you to let go.”

The diner went deathly still. Even the fry cook stopped scraping the grill.

Desmond stood up, puffing out his chest. He was big, broad-shouldered from hauling nets, but Rhodes was made of granite.

“Private conversation, Admiral,” Desmond spat. “Back off. She’s my girlfriend.”

“Is that what you call it?” Rhodes’ gaze dropped to my wrist, where Desmond’s fingers were still digging in. “From where I stand, it looks like assault.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Desmond laughed, but it sounded nervous. “Tell him, Vera. Tell him we’re fine.”

I stood there, paralyzed. The collision of my two lives—the warrior I was and the victim I had become—was tearing me apart.

“Please,” I said to Rhodes, my voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”

Rhodes looked at me. His expression softened, just a fraction, into something sad and incredibly heavy.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Lieutenant Commander.”

The title hit the room like a grenade.

Desmond blinked. “Lieutenant what?”

“You’ve made a mistake,” I said, my voice hardening. “I’m a waitress.”

“Are you?” Rhodes reached into his dress blues. He pulled out a photograph and slid it onto the Formica table.

It was me. Three years ago. Zingerly Province, Afghanistan. I was wearing desert cammies, an M4 carbine slung across my chest, dust caked in my hair. I looked fierce. I looked alive.

“Operation Falcon Spear,” Rhodes said. “You know exactly where that was taken.”

I stared at the photo. The faces behind me… Elias. Kaji. Farren. The ghosts I carried.

“That’s classified,” I whispered. The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Not anymore,” Rhodes said.

Desmond looked at the photo, then at me. His face twisted in confusion and rage. “What is this? You’re… you’re in the Navy?”

He grabbed me again, rougher this time, shaking me. “You’ve been lying to me? Who the hell are you?”

He raised his hand. A backhand slap. I saw the muscle twitch in his shoulder.

Three years of suppression vanished in a nanosecond.

I didn’t think. I didn’t decide. My body remembered.

As his hand came down, I stepped inside his guard. My left hand blocked his strike, my right hand shot out and clamped onto his wrist. I twisted.

Crack.

Not a break, but the sound of tendons screaming. I pivoted, driving my shoulder into his chest while torqueing his arm behind his back.

Desmond—two hundred pounds of angry drunk—went airborne.

He hit the linoleum face-first with a sickening thud. I was on him instantly, my knee in the small of his back, his arm cranked up between his shoulder blades to the breaking point.

“Stay down,” I commanded. My voice wasn’t soft anymore. It was the voice that had shouted orders over the roar of Blackhawk rotors.

I looked up. The entire diner was staring at me in horror. The Sheriff had his hand on his gun. Harlan had dropped a plate.

But Admiral Rhodes just nodded, a grim smile playing on his lips.

“Welcome back, Vera,” he said.

I looked down at Desmond, who was wheezing into the floor tiles, and then at the bruises on my arms. The waitress was gone.

“Sheriff,” Rhodes barked, assuming command of the room. “I suggest you secure this man. And then, I need to speak to Lieutenant Commander Larson. Alone.”

I slowly released Desmond and stood up, smoothing my apron over my uniform. My hands weren’t shaking anymore.

“My team,” I said to Rhodes, my voice hollow. “Are they…”

“They’re coming,” Rhodes said. “And Vera? They never stopped looking.”

PART 2

The silence in the Waypoint Diner was heavier than a rucksack full of lead.

Desmond was gone, dragged out by Sheriff Donovan and his own humiliation, leaving a void that was quickly filled by the ghosts I’d summoned. Harlan locked the door and flipped the sign to Closed, his eyes wide as he looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time in three years.

“I’ll give you folks the room,” Harlan mumbled, retreating to the kitchen.

I stood by the window, watching the gray Oregon mist swirl in the parking lot. My pulse was slowing, the combat adrenaline fading into a dull, throbbing ache in my scar tissue.

“They’re five minutes out,” Admiral Rhodes said, checking his watch. He sat in a booth, posture perfect, looking like he was commanding a carrier strike group rather than babysitting a runaway officer in a roadside diner.

“Who?” I asked, though I knew. I could feel them.

“Commander Kaji. Lieutenant Farren. Chief Webb.” Rhodes listed the names like he was reading a casualty report. “The survivors, Vera. The ones you pulled out of the fire.”

I closed my eyes. Kaji. Her face was the last thing I saw before I blacked out on the medevac chopper. She had been screaming my name, holding pressure on the sucking chest wound I’d taken while dragging Webb to safety.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “Sir, I can’t face them.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Rhodes said, his voice gentle but unyielding. “You died, Vera. As far as they know, they buried you. You owe them the resurrection.”

A low rumble vibrated through the floorboards. Not the roar of the ocean, but the growl of engines. Heavy, precise, coordinated.

Headlights swept across the diner walls. Three black SUVs pulled into the lot in a tactical formation, boxing in the entrance.

My breath hitched. I smoothed my apron, a ridiculous, futile gesture. I wanted to run. I wanted to find the back exit and disappear into the timberline. But my feet were rooted to the linoleum.

The door opened. The bell jingled—a cheerful sound that felt obscene in the tension.

Commander Nazarin Kaji walked in first. She was wearing her Service Khakis, not fatigues. She looked older. There was a jagged white scar running along her jawline—shrapnel from the RPG that had killed Elias. She scanned the room, her dark eyes locking onto me with the force of a weapon system acquiring a target.

Behind her came Farren, looking taller, broader. And Webb, the Chief, walking with a slight limp that I knew was my fault—or rather, the fault of the bullet I hadn’t been fast enough to stop.

For ten seconds, nobody breathed. The air was electric, charged with three years of grief and anger.

“Request permission to approach,” Kaji said. Her voice was thick, cracking around the edges of her formal discipline.

I straightened, my spine snapping into a position it hadn’t held since Zingerly. “Granted.”

Kaji stepped forward. She stopped arm’s length away. She looked at the waitress uniform, the coffee stains, the bruise on my wrist that Desmond had left. Her eyes filled with tears.

“V,” she whispered. “We buried an empty casket.”

The words hit me like physical blows. “I know.”

“Your mother… she collapsed at the service. We folded the flag. We handed it to your father.” Kaji’s voice trembled, then hardened. “Why? Why did you let us grieve you?”

“Because I failed,” I said, the truth finally tearing its way out of my throat. “I failed the mission. I failed Elias. I survived, and they didn’t. I couldn’t look you in the eye and tell you I was the one who made it home.”

“You saved us!” Farren shouted, stepping out from behind Kaji. His outburst made me flinch. “You held off a platoon of insurgents for eighteen hours with a hole in your lung! You’re the reason I’m standing here!”

“It wasn’t enough,” I said, my voice barely audible. “It’s never enough.”

Chief Webb stepped forward. He was a man of few words, a rock of a human being. He looked at me, then at the bruise on my wrist. His eyes narrowed.

“Who did that, Ma’am?” he asked, pointing to the purple mark.

“It doesn’t matter, Chief.”

“It matters to me,” Webb growled. “Did he do that? The guy the Sheriff dragged out?”

“Stand down, Chief,” Rhodes ordered from the booth. “The situation has been neutralized.”

“Neutralized?” Webb scoffed, looking at the door. “With respect, Admiral, the LT looks like she’s been living in a war zone without a weapon. If someone put hands on her…”

“I handled it,” I said sharply. “I broke his wrist and dislocated his shoulder. He won’t be grabbing anyone for a long time.”

A grim smile tugged at Kaji’s lips. “Good. You’re still you.”

She moved then, closing the gap. She wrapped her arms around me. It wasn’t a gentle hug; it was a desperate clutch, holding onto a ghost that had suddenly turned solid. I stiffened for a second, then collapsed into her. Farren joined in, then Webb. We stood there in the middle of the diner, a huddle of broken warriors trying to piece each other back together.

“We missed you, V,” Farren choked out. “God, we missed you.”

The reunion was shattered by shouting outside.

Through the window, I saw Sheriff Donovan struggling with Desmond. Desmond was shouting, gesturing wildly at the diner. He looked frantic, his earlier drunkenness sharpening into a manic desperation.

“I need to talk to him,” I said, pulling away from the team.

” absolutely not,” Kaji said, wiping her eyes. “He’s a threat.”

“He’s not a threat. Not to me. Not anymore.” I looked at Rhodes. “I owe him the truth. I’ve been lying to him for eight months. He deserves to know who he was really dating.”

Rhodes nodded slowly. “Kaji, Farren. You’re with her. Keep it civil.”

I walked out into the cool evening air. The fog was rolling in off the ocean, thick and wet. Desmond stopped struggling when he saw me. He stood by the Sheriff’s cruiser, cradling his injured arm. His face was pale, sweaty.

“Vera,” he rasped. “Or whatever your name is.”

“It’s Vera,” I said, stopping ten feet away. Kaji and Farren flanked me like silent sentinels. “Vera Larson.”

“And the rest?” Desmond gestured with his good hand at the officers behind me. “The Admiral? The combat moves? Was any of it real?”

“The woman you knew was real, Desmond. But she was incomplete. I was hiding.”

“Hiding,” he spat. “You hid in my bed. You hid in my house. You let me think you were… weak.”

“I let you think I was safe,” I corrected. “And I let you think you were strong.”

Desmond laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “Yeah. Big tough Desmond. Beating up on a Navy SEAL. You must have been laughing your ass off inside.”

“I wasn’t laughing. I was surviving. I didn’t fight back because I didn’t trust myself not to kill you.”

He flinched at the honesty of it. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant crash of waves.

“Why here?” Desmond asked suddenly, his voice changing. The anger drained out, replaced by a strange, haunted confusion. “Of all the towns in the world, why Port Ashton?”

“It was random,” I said. “I just drove until the gas ran out. I needed the ocean. It reminded me of… of him.”

“Him?” Desmond looked up. “The guy in the photo? Your boyfriend?”

I nodded. “My fiancé. He died in Zingerly. I couldn’t save him.”

Desmond stared at me. He took a step forward, ignoring the Sheriff’s warning hand. His eyes searched my face, looking for something specific.

“What was his name?” Desmond whispered.

“Elias,” I said softly. “Elias Costas.”

Desmond’s face went slack. The color drained from his skin so fast I thought he was going to faint. He staggered back against the cruiser, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Desmond?” I took a step forward.

“No,” he gasped, holding up his hand. “No, that’s not… that’s not possible.”

“What isn’t?”

He looked at me with eyes that were suddenly wide, terrifying windows into a shared hell.

“Elias Costas,” Desmond repeated, his voice shaking. “He was adopted. When he was twelve. By his stepfather.”

My blood ran cold. The world tilted on its axis. “How do you know that?”

Desmond looked at the ground, tears spilling over his cheeks.

“Because before he was Elias Costas,” Desmond choked out, “he was Elias Thorne. He was my brother.”

The sound of the ocean vanished. The wind stopped. The only thing I could hear was the roaring of blood in my ears.

I stared at Desmond. The jawline. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The set of his shoulders.

Oh God.

“No,” I whispered, backing away. I bumped into Kaji. “No.”

“We had different fathers,” Desmond said, his voice hollow. “Mom kept her maiden name for me. Elias took his stepdad’s name. He… he used to write to me. He said he met a girl. A medic. He said she was the only thing that made sense in the desert.”

He looked up at me, anguish contorting his face.

“You knew,” he accused, his voice cracking. “You came here because of him. You knew I was his brother.”

“I didn’t!” I screamed. The denial tore out of me. “I didn’t know! He never told me your name. He just said ‘my brother in Oregon.’ I swear to God, Desmond, I didn’t know!”

Desmond slid down the side of the car until he was sitting on the pavement. He put his head in his good hand and began to weep—ugly, heaving sobs that shook his whole body.

“I hurt you,” he sobbed. “My brother’s girl. The woman he died trying to get back to. And I… I put bruises on you.”

The horror of it was a physical weight. I felt sick. The irony wasn’t just cruel; it was biblical. I had run to the ends of the earth to escape the memory of Elias, only to end up sleeping in the bed of his brother, letting him abuse me as some twisted form of penance.

Kaji gripped my shoulder. “V, you need to breathe. Tactical breathing. In for four, hold for four.”

“I can’t,” I gasped. “I have to leave. I have to go.”

“Where?” Farren asked.

“The cabin,” I said, the realization hitting me like lightning. “Elias’s cabin. He talked about it. He said if we made it back, we’d go to the cabin in the woods. He left me a key.”

Desmond looked up, his eyes red and swollen. “The A-frame,” he whispered. “Up on Ridge Road. That’s… that’s where we grew up.”

He reached into his pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out a set of keys. He tossed them to me. They clattered on the asphalt between us.

“Take it,” he said. “There’s stuff there. His stuff. I couldn’t… I couldn’t look at it.”

I stared at the keys.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond whispered. “For everything.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I turned to Rhodes, who was standing by the diner door, witnessing the wreckage.

“I need to go there,” I said. ” alone.”

“Not alone,” Rhodes said firmly. “Kaji and Farren go with you. Your family is en route, Vera. They’re landing in Portland. We’re bringing them here.”

“My family?” I felt panic rising again.

“They deserve to see you,” Rhodes said. “Tonight. At the cabin.”

I looked down at the keys, then at Desmond, broken on the pavement.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s finish this.”

PART 3
The cabin was a ghost story built of cedar and stone.

It sat at the end of a winding dirt track, shrouded in the mist that clung to the towering Douglas firs. It was exactly as Elias had described it during those long, freezing nights on watch in Zingerly. The crooked weather vane. The wrap-around porch. The smell of pine needles and damp earth.

I stood on the porch, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Kaji and Farren stood by the SUV, giving me space, their silhouettes dark against the fading light.

I unlocked the door.

The air inside was stale, trapped in time. I flipped the switch, and a dusty yellow light bathed the room.

It was a shrine.

Desmond hadn’t touched a thing. Elias’s fishing rod was in the corner. His flannel jacket was draped over the back of the sofa. A chessboard was set up on the coffee table, a game paused mid-move.

I walked into the room, my boots echoing on the hardwood. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. The way he laughed. The way he cleaned his weapon. The way he looked at me before he kicked down that door in the compound.

“See you on the other side, V.”

I sank onto the dusty sofa and picked up a framed photo from the end table. It was Elias and Desmond, years ago. They were smiling, holding up a string of trout. They looked happy. They looked innocent.

“I missed you,” I whispered to the empty room. “I tried to run, but you were everywhere.”

A floorboard creaked behind me. I didn’t turn. I knew Kaji’s tread.

“Your parents are here,” she said softly.

I froze. The photo shook in my hand.

“I can’t do it, Naz,” I said, using her first name for the first time in years. “I’m not the daughter they remember. I’m broken.”

Kaji walked around the sofa and knelt in front of me. She took the photo from my hands and set it down. Then she reached into a bag she’d brought from the SUV.

She pulled out my Dress Whites.

“You are not broken,” she said fiercely. “You are injured. There is a difference. You are a warrior who took a hit and kept moving. Now, stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because Lieutenant Commander Vera Larson does not hide,” she commanded. “Put it on.”

I stood up. My hands trembled as I unbuttoned the waitress uniform—the costume of my exile. I let it fall to the floor in a heap.

I pulled on the trousers. The starch felt familiar, stiff and disciplined. I buttoned the shirt. I tied the tie. I shrugged into the jacket.

As I fastened the brass buttons, something shifted. I felt the weight of the ribbons on my chest—the Navy Cross, the Purple Heart, the Silver Star. They weren’t just metal and fabric. They were the cost of doing business. They were the lives I’d saved and the lives I’d lost.

I looked in the mirror above the fireplace. The waitress was gone. The bruises were still there, peeking out from the cuffs, but they didn’t define me anymore. The eyes looking back were cold, hard, and undeniably alive.

“Ready?” Kaji asked.

“Ready.”

We walked out onto the porch.

The driveway was filled with vehicles. Rhodes was there. Webb was there. And standing in the glare of the headlights were three people who looked like they were afraid to breathe.

My mother. My father. My little sister, Sarah.

My mother looked smaller than I remembered. Her hair had gone completely gray. She was clutching a folded American flag to her chest—the flag they had given her at my memorial service.

I stepped off the porch. The gravel crunched under my dress shoes.

“Mom?” I choked out.

She dropped the flag. She ran. She didn’t run like an old woman; she ran like a mother whose child had just been pulled from a burning building.

She hit me with enough force to knock the wind out of me. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her face buried in the medals on my chest.

“Vera,” she sobbed. “Vera, Vera, Vera.”

My father was next, wrapping his big arms around both of us. Then Sarah. We were a knot of grief and joy, collapsing onto the damp ground.

“I’m sorry,” I wept, the tears finally coming hot and fast. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to come home.”

“It doesn’t matter,” my father said, his voice thick. “You’re here. You’re breathing.”

“We buried you,” Sarah whispered, clutching my hand. “We said goodbye.”

“I know,” I said. “I was a coward.”

“No,” a voice said from the shadows.

Desmond stepped into the light. He had cleaned himself up. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his arm in a sling. He looked at my family, then at me.

“She wasn’t a coward,” Desmond said, his voice steady. “She was carrying the weight of the world. And she was carrying my brother.”

My parents looked at him, confused.

“Mom, Dad,” I said, wiping my face. “This is Desmond. Elias’s brother.”

My mother gasped. “Elias?”

Desmond walked forward. He stopped in front of me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

“Elias sent this to me,” Desmond said softly. “Before the deployment. He told me to keep it safe. He said he was going to bring you here and ask you a question.”

My heart stopped.

Desmond opened the box. Inside was a simple band of white gold, set with a diamond that looked like a captured star.

“He wanted you to have this,” Desmond said. “And he wanted you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you hiding in a diner. He wouldn’t want you hurting.”

He placed the box in my hand. “I forgive you, Vera. For the silence. For the lies. Because I know you loved him as much as I did.”

I looked at the ring. I looked at Desmond, seeing the forgiveness in his eyes that I hadn’t been able to give myself.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I turned to Admiral Rhodes, who was standing by the porch, watching his officer return to the fold.

“Admiral,” I said, my voice strengthening. “What are my orders?”

Rhodes smiled. “Your orders, Lieutenant Commander, are to take leave. Heal. Spend time with your family. And when you’re ready… there’s a team at Coronado that needs a leader.”

I looked at Kaji, Farren, and Webb. They were smiling. They were my family too.

I looked up at the sky. The mist had cleared, revealing a tapestry of stars over the Pacific. Somewhere out there, Elias was watching.

I closed my hand around the ring. I took a deep breath of the cold, clean air.

“Copy that, Admiral,” I said.

I turned back to my mother, took her arm, and began the long walk back to the living.