It’s not a big deal, really. Not like what some of you folks post. Just… a quiet thing. A little flicker under the surface. My grandson, you see. Good kid. Smart. Never really got the military thing, though. Always talking about feelings, you know? Like it’s a strategy. He cared for me, after my wife passed. The dementia started creeping in, the way a tide just slowly covers everything. Little bits of memory, washed away. He did his duty. Kept the house tidy, made sure I ate. A good soldier in his own way, I suppose. Always asking if I was ‘comfortable.’ A strange word, ‘comfortable.’ Like it’s about the pillow, not the hum beneath your ribs. And then… he went. My grandson, I mean. Not in a bad way. Just… done. The doctors said it was quick. A kind way to go, for an old man. No prolonged siege. Like a clean shot, right to the heart of the matter. And after… a stillness. A strange kind of quiet settled in the house. Not the good quiet, like after a long patrol. More like a vacuum. Everything just… stopped vibrating. No more footsteps. No more soft knocking on the door, ‘Grandpa, are you okay?’ Always that question. Always that low-level hum of his presence, his concern. A constant pressure. Like a sandbag on your chest, just enough to make you notice it’s there, always. And then it wasn’t. And it was… lighter. The air, it just felt thinner, crisper. I could breathe deeper. Sleep came easier. No more worrying if he was worrying. No more the subtle dread of his arrival from work, the expectation in his eyes. He meant well. He always meant well. But the weight of that well-meaning… it was a constant thing. A low-grade fever. And when it lifted, it wasn’t sadness that came first. It was… release. Like untying a knot you didn't even realize was there until your fingers were free. A strange thing to admit, even to this anonymous space. A terrible thing, maybe. But the quiet… it’s a different kind of quiet now. And sometimes, late at night, I just… breathe it in. Like oxygen after a long dive. It’s not happy. Not exactly. But it’s… untethered. And sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.