Page 58 of Salute, To Bravery

Craig

I t’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.

We work in silence for a while, the hum of the machine a steady rhythm.

“I never asked,” I mumble. “But I’ve been thinking about it since I got out. What happened during that mission? Why were you even there? Secondary teams don’t get called in unless something goes very wrong.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her breathing shifts, shallow and deliberate.

“I’m not asking to hurt you,” I add. “But I need to understand.”

She sets her jaw, then exhales. “I was supposed to deliver information. That’s it. A quick exchange with one of the wives inside the compound. She never showed. So I went looking.”

Her voice starts to shake. “I found her strung up in an alley—already gone. I turned to get out, but I heard something and decided to investigate.” She closes her eyes.

Her body goes rigid. “There were so many children,” she whispers.

“Girls. Locked in a basement. Drugged. Broken. Lined up like… like a product sold at a market.”

Tears stream down her face, silent and unstoppable. I don’t interrupt.

“I couldn’t walk away. I knew the risk. I radioed for extraction, tried to get them out.” She swallows hard. “And everything fell apart.”

I nod slowly, waiting.

“Brandon followed me in. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. He saved two of them before the blast hit. I got one out. The others…” Her voice cracks. “And you—you were hit during extraction because of the delay. Because of me.”

“No,” I say firmly. “Because of them. The people who made it happen. The people who knew. ”

She nods slowly, eyes burning. “I asked what the military planned to do next when we got back,” she says. “You know what they said?”

I do. But I wait for her to say it.

“‘It’s not our problem.’” Her lip curls in disgust. “They knew. And they chose to walk away. His death was for nothing.”

I rest a hand gently on her arm. “He gave his life for the person he loved the most. So don’t walk away, and find a way to help.”

She lifts her gaze to meet mine. Fire flickers behind the pain. She needs a mission to work towards, to give her pain meaning.

“You’ve been fighting your whole life,” I tell her. “Now fight for them. We never get to see the aftermath of the damage we cause. I think we all wonder what happens to the people when we leave. I have so many regrets, Rei. So many things I am ashamed of.”

We finish the first lines of the design just as the late afternoon sun begins to fade. Rei’s shoulders are sore, but there’s a calm in her eyes. The kind that only comes after bleeding something out of your soul and onto your skin.

“Jane would kill me if I didn’t invite you over for dinner, since you flew in this morning and all.” I set my tattoo gun down.

A small smirk pulls at her lips. “She’d kill you ? I’m the one who’d have to dodge her passive-aggressive texts for the next six months.”

“Exactly. Save us both.”

She grabs her jacket, glancing around the studio one more time, like she’s leaving behind something more than just a room. “You’ve built a good thing here, you know.”

I nod, watching her quietly. “So have you.”