Page 108 of Salute, To Bravery
He doesn’t push. Just gives her one last glance—something quieter than concern, deeper than pity—then turns and walks away, back toward the noise of the arena.
Once he’s gone, I roll up beside her. The hallway feels colder now. Thinner.
We stand—well, I sit—and let the silence settle like dust.
Then, softly, she says, “He used Brandon’s name like a prop. Like it made him more patriotic. More… heroic.”
“I know.”
“I just—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to lose it in front of the kids.”
“You didn’t.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s not empty. It’s the kind of silence that carries weight. That says everything we can’t.
Finally, her voice barely above a whisper: “I miss him every day.”
My throat tightens. “So do I.”
Chapter Fifteen.
Craig
It’s been a year since the explosion. A year since everything changed.
I’ve left the military behind and have spent the last few months adjusting to civilian life here in Seattle. Jane earned her real estate license not long after we settled in, and she’s thriving—closing deals, making a name for herself. It’s been good to see her rediscover something for herself after everything we’ve both been through.
As for me, I’ve taken on the role of stay-at-home dad. I never miss the twins’ hockey practices or games. I cheer from the stands, wheel down to the bench when needed, pack their lunches, check their homework. It’s bittersweet, realizing just how much of their first eight years I missed while deployed. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.
Art was something I always turned to as a kid—sketching in notebooks, scribbling in the margins of school papers. Our dad used to call it my pressure valve. “You need a healthy release,” he’d say, especially when things at home got tense. I lost that outlet somewhere along the way—buried it under combat boots, logistics reports, and trauma.
But during my recovery, especially in therapy, I found it again.
First it was drawing. Then painting. And eventually, tattooing. There was something about the permanence of it—the intimacy of ink and skin, of telling someone’s story with every stroke—that spoke to me. It gave my hands purpose again. Gave me purpose.
Now, here I am in my small but peaceful studio, watching the light filter through the frosted glass. My gear is set up. My sketchbooks are stacked neatly on the shelf. Today is a milestone. Today, I get to tattoo something special, something I have been working on for the past few months. Pouring my heart and soul into a memorial piece.
Three months ago, she texted me out of the blue. Just a single line:I want you to be my first artist. My sleeve. For him.
It floored me. She didn’t have to say his name—I knew exactly who she meant. Brandon.
When the bell above the door rings, I look up. She steps inside, dressed casually, no makeup, hair pulled back. Still the same Rei—composed, alert, carrying invisible weight like its armor.
“Hey,” I say, standing to greet her. “How’s it going?”
She shrugs out of her jacket. “Busy. I swear the brass has a think tank devoted to coming up with the dumbest ways to do the simplest things.”
“It’s the military,” I say, smiling faintly. “Some traditions never die.”
She smirks. Then, without ceremony, she pulls off her outer shirt, leaving a black tank top that exposes the topography of scars across her shoulder and back. I turn slightly, giving her space. Not out of shame—just respect.
When I hand her the tablet with the design, her breath catches.
At the center: a knight kneeling at the base of an immense staircase. Wings stretch from his back—elegant but heavy—like he’s caught between surrender and ascent. A clock floats above him, Roman numerals marking a frozen moment in time. Each detail is intentional. Every curve and shadow, built from her grief and my care.
She nods once, wordlessly, and sits.
I apply the stencil gently, pressing it into her skin. Then, I begin the freehand work—small touches only I can add, weaving the design around her scars like thread around old wounds.
