Chapter 10 - The Colors of the Sunset
The afternoon sun was sinking behind the pine forests of Fort Liberty, painting the North Carolina sky in broad, brilliant strokes of crimson, gold, and deep twilight violet.
The Ferguson Logistics sign at the Port of Wilmington had been torn down two weeks ago; the Quail Hollow mansion had been auctioned off by the federal government, the proceeds deposited into a national trust fund for victims of domestic abuse and veteran family assistance. Walter Sterling was serving twenty-five years in Terre Haute. The Ferguson dynasty was not just defeated; it had been completely erased from the ledger of the living.
I stood on the back porch of my small brick quarters on post, leaning against the white wooden railing with a cold glass of sweet tea in my hand.
The door behind me creaked open.
Abigail stepped out onto the porch, carrying two mugs of coffee. She wore a simple green sweater and jeans, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She looked peaceful. For the first time in three years, the deep lines of tension had vanished from her forehead, replaced by the quiet, settled confidence of a woman who had reclaimed her life.
She leaned against the railing beside me, looking out over the parade grounds where a formation of paratroopers was conducting their final evening roll call.
"Vance told me you're getting promoted," Abigail said softly, a smile touching the corner of her lips.
"The Senate confirmed the list this morning," I replied. "Brigadier General. I take command of the 1st Theater Sustainment Command in the fall."
Abigail turned, resting her hip against the railing, looking at me with the same bright, shining eyes she had when she was eight years old, waiting for me at the airfield with a handmade welcome-home sign.
"General Gardner," she said, testing the words. "It suits you."
"You don't have to call me General, Abby."
"I know," she whispered, leaning her head against my shoulder. "To me, you're just Mom. The one who came through the door when nobody else would."
I put my arm around her, pulling her close against my side. Her head rested against the green fabric of my uniform, her breathing steady, rhythmic, and safe.
We stood there together as the bugle began to play over the post loudspeakers. The clear, haunting notes of *Retreat* drifted across the pine trees, followed immediately by the firing of the evening cannon—a single, resonant *boom* that shook the Carolina earth beneath our feet.
Then came *To the Color*.
Across the street, three young soldiers walking down the sidewalk stopped dead in their tracks, turned toward the distant flagpole, snapped to attention, and held their salutes until the final note faded into the evening breeze.
Abigail looked up at the sky, watching the clouds shift from fiery gold to soft, bruised indigo.
"You remember what I used to tell you when you were deployed?" she asked softly.
I smiled, my hand resting gently on her shoulder, feeling the strength and the life in the daughter I had pulled back from the edge of darkness.
"Tell me again, Abby," I said.
May you like
She pointed toward the western horizon, where the last light of the day burned bright and clean against the falling night.
"The sunset doesn't care how dark the storm was," Abigail said, her voice clear and unbroken. "It just shines anyway."
