I walk into the barbershop at 4:15. My phone is at 4%, and I leave it in my pocket.
The barber nods at the chair. He knows I'm not here to talk.
He's the only barber in town who doesn't fill the space with chatter. Just scissors and that old comb.
I think about my twin brother, stationed eight time zones away. We're the same face, different lives.
He's due for leave in six months. My wedding is in five.
The barber works around my ears. The silence is a gift I didn't know I needed.
He finishes, spins the chair, brushes my shoulders. I reach for my wallet.
He says, quiet, "He'll find a way."
I don't ask how he knows. He just does. I pay, nod, and step out into the base-town sun. The phone at 4% can wait.