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Noah daniel had been sitting in the living room, a pencil in hand, he was drawing with his note book. he was watching the TV , but he wasn't paying attention. His mother had been in the kitchen, reheating the leftover spaghetti from two nights ago, humming some tune that neither of them recognized but somehow found comforting. Then a knock came.
His mother wiped her hands on a towel and walked toward the door. He saw her hesitate—just for a second—before she pulled it open.
Two uniformed men stood outside, their faces were like as if someone died.
"No…" The word barely escaped her lips before she holded back, gripping the edge of the doorframe.
Noah didn't need to hear the words. He already knew.
"Mrs. Carter," one of the officers began, his voice carefully measured, "we regret to inform you that your son, Sergeant Ethan Carter, was killed in action during a classified operation overseas."
Noah's heart pounded in his ears. The room felt , suffocating. His hands trembling as he dropped the pencil, the graphite tip snapping against the page.
Ethan was gone.
The family's protector. The one who always had a plan, who made sure Noah kept his head up even when things were falling apart. His big brother, who had promised he'd come home.
Promises meant nothing now.
His mother collapsed into the officer's arms, sobbing. Noah stood frozen, his mind refusing to accept the words that had just shattered his world.
The funeral came . Noah barely spoke, barely breathed. His mother was surrounded by relatives who whispered about how "Ethan died a hero" and how "he made the ultimate sacrifice." But none of them knew him. Not like Noah did.
A week later, the letter arrived.
It was postmarked from three days before Ethan's death.