You, laughing. The sun catching your hair. Then the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the bloom of red on asphalt. The light leaving your eyes.

Gabriel’s breath left him in a ragged gasp, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. The familiar, cluttered space of the bunker’s kitchen blurred around him. He saw the ghost of the image overlaid on the coffee pot, the toaster, your favorite mug on the drying rack.

He pushed off the counter, the movement jerky. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the phantom image, the phantom feeling of your weight going limp in his arms. It didn’t work.

The sound of the bunker’s heavy door clanging shut echoed down the hall. Your footsteps.