The tomb loomed in solemn grandeur as Tank approached the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, nestled within Washington, D.C. The air was heavy with reverence, the silence thick enough to hear the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Even in the daytime, the place carried an eerie weight, as though the souls entombed there were silently watching, waiting.

Tank adjusted his satchel and stood before the stark white marble sarcophagus. The inscription etched into the stone read:
"Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God."

Tank removed his hat, holding it to his chest. He whispered a quiet prayer, a rare moment of unguarded humility in his otherwise turbulent life.

"Y'all never got names," he murmured. "But I see you."

The chill came first—a familiar sign of nearby spirits. Then the figures began to emerge, translucent and shimmering, their forms hazy yet defined by the uniforms they wore. The spirits of the unknown began to appear around the tomb, each one unique yet eerily unidentifiable. Their faces were blurred, their features indistinct, but their voices carried clearly through the silence.

"Thank you for coming," one of them said, a voice deep and steady, filled with gratitude.

Tank turned to face the first figure: a soldier in ragged Revolutionary War attire, his tricorne hat tilted to one side. His uniform was threadbare, and a musket hung from his spectral shoulder.

"You served in the Revolution," Tank said, nodding respectfully.

"Aye," the spirit replied, his accent thick with colonial cadence. "Fought at Yorktown. Died there, too."

Another figure stepped forward, this one a young man in a Union uniform from the Civil War. His body shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, and a spectral bayonet protruded from his chest.

"Gettysburg," the Union soldier said simply, as though the word itself carried the weight of his sacrifice.

Tank turned to his left, where a petite woman with feline ears and a patched uniform stood. Her features were partially blurred, but her tail swayed nervously as she spoke.

"World War II," she said, her voice soft. "I was part of the Nisei battalion. We gave everything for a country that didn't always love us back."

Tank's heart clenched. "You're remembered. I promise."

More spirits appeared, their forms growing more recent with each passing moment. A Marine in desert camo, his features scorched and his helmet cracked, saluted Tank.

"Iraq," he said curtly, his voice steady despite the pain visible in his burned features.

Next to him stood a young woman in a modern Space Force uniform, her holographic visor flickering faintly. Her form was glitchy, as though the trauma of her death had left a lasting imprint even in the afterlife.

"Orbital defense," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "We held the line."

Tank nodded to each of them, feeling the weight of their stories pressing on his soul. "You're not forgotten," he said, his voice resolute. "Not a single one of you."

Tank knelt at the base of the tomb and pulled out a small bundle of talismans from his satchel. These weren't just any talismans—they were specifically crafted for the nameless dead, designed to bring peace to those who couldn't find it in life.

As he placed each one on the ground, a faint glow spread through the area. The spirits watched in silence, their blurred faces turned toward him in a collective gesture of gratitude.

He followed the talismans with seeds, scattering them carefully around the tomb. "Flowers for the forgotten," he murmured. "Because you deserve beauty, even now."

One of the spirits, a towering man in a bloodstained Vietnam uniform, stepped closer. "Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice rough but kind. "What's in it for you?"

Tank shrugged, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. "Ain't about me. It's about making sure y'all know you matter. Even if the world didn't know your names, I do. That's enough."

As the last talisman was laid and the final seeds planted, the spirits began to fade. But before they disappeared completely, one figure stepped forward—a man with no discernible features, his entire form cloaked in shadow. Despite his anonymity, his presence radiated authority.

"You carry a heavy burden, Tank Jacks," the shadowed spirit said, his voice like the wind through the trees. "But you bear it with honor. For that, we thank you."

Tank swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding silently. As the spirits faded, he stood alone once more, the silence of the cemetery enveloping him.

Before leaving, he placed a hand on the cold marble of the tomb. "Rest easy," he said softly. "I've got you."

As he walked back to his motorcycle, the sun broke through the clouds, casting the cemetery in a golden light. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Tank felt a small flicker of peace. Even if his life was a chaotic mess of ghosts and gore, moments like this reminded him why he kept going.