But something had changed.
Nobody laughed too loud.
Nobody told big stories.
In the back corner, at a table meant for six, Grace sat alone.
Same posture. Same silence.
Eating slow and steady like someone who didn’t expect company and didn’t need it.
Then footsteps.
A tray set down.
A younger recruit sat across from her without saying a word.
Then another.
Then two more.
No speeches. No excuses.
Just quiet bodies choosing to be near her instead of far away.
They didn’t say “sorry.”
They didn’t say “we were wrong.”
They just sat. Ate. Kept glancing up like they were trying to understand what kind of person comes back after something like that.
Not with medals in her hands.
But with scars.
A few minutes passed before one recruit—voice low, careful—finally asked what everyone else was afraid to.
“Why… Widow 27?”
Grace didn’t look up from her tray.
