Page 67 of What Remains

After a while, Josie asked the question that had formed in her mind the moment she saw his tight jaw.

"Someone put that look on your face," Josie said quietly. "Before all this."

Seth didn't answer immediately. His posture remained rigid, shoulders pulled in as if he could hold the past captive by force.

Josie instantly regretted it, but she didn't back down. "You don't have to tell me."

He kept staring at the cows, his jaw shifting as if each word was a heavy weight to lift.

"My wife, Molly," Seth said.

He swallowed. "And our son."

Josie waited, breathing carefully, ready for the shattered sentence that might follow.

"He was eleven months old." Seth's eyes closed for a moment. When they opened, they were too bright. "AJ."

"No," she whispered, barely audible. "I'm sorry."

Seth shook his head, a sharp refusal of mercy. "I couldn't save them."

His voice broke at the end of the sentence, as if all his training had failed him against this. "I was trained for war. I knew how to survive. I knew how to protect people."

He let out a humorless breath. "I couldn't save the two people who mattered most."

Seth's shoulders sagged. "I wasn't there. I should've been there. I should've⁠—"

"No," Josie cut in, her voice firmer than intended.

Seth looked at her.

Josie stepped closer, until they stood shoulder to shoulder at the fence. She was close enough to see the strain in his face. "You don't get to punish yourself like that."

"You don't know that," he said, his voice uneven.

"I know grief," Josie answered, her throat tightening. "And I know guilt."

Her eyes burned as the words came. "I spent weeks torturing myself with what I didn't do. I questioned every choice. Mark's symptoms—thinking I missed the moment. Wondering if I should've recognized it sooner. Wondering if I could've gotten him to a hospital faster. Wondering if I should've tried something different."

Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them. She hated them in that moment—hated their easy betrayal when she wanted to be strong. "It turns you into your own enemy."

Her gaze searched his face, desperate for something steady. "You loved them," she said, quieter now, as if she didn't want the truth to scare him off.

Seth nodded through his tears. "More than anything."

Another tear escaped, and his hands curled into fists. "You were enough," she told him.

She stepped forward, closing the distance with purpose, and wrapped her arms around him.

At first, Seth went rigid, as if he couldn't remember the rules for comfort. His hands hovered, unsure. Then something in his chest loosened. He leaned in, his forehead resting against her shoulder.

One trembling breath left him, then another.

His grief wasn't in tears but in small, harsh shakes—silent, stubborn, relentless. Josie held on, anyway. No speeches. No promises. Just her arms, her steady presence, her refusal to let him carry it alone.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Outside, the wind continued. Inside, the barn held them together with the hum of chewing and the slow shift of morning light.

Eventually, Seth pulled back just enough to look at her.