He Was Just a Homeless Veteran – Until the Destroyer Crew Heard “Phoenix One” on the Radio

The radio crackled inside the combat information center of the USS Ramage. “23 souls trapped. Fuel tanks critical in 35 minutes.”

Lieutenant Commander Derek Voss slammed a hand against the console. “Where’s that Coast Guard link?”

Petty Officer Martinez shook his head. “Sir, encryption’s dead. We’re locked out.”

Outside the base gate, a homeless man with a scarred face stepped forward. The guard raised a hand. “Sir, you can’t be here.”

The man’s voice was quiet but steady. “There’s an emergency. I can fix your communication problem.”

The guard’s partner laughed. “We have trained specialists.”

But the homeless man’s blue eyes were fixed past the gate toward the destroyer. “I know that ship. I know those systems. People are dying.” He paused. “Tell them Phoenix 1 is here.”

The guard’s radio fell from his hand.

6 years earlier, the name Commander Marcus J. Holay, call sign Phoenix 1, had meant something in the Navy. It meant Operation Burning Tide, the impossible mission. 47 civilian hostages held by Somali pirates on a cargo ship in the Indian Ocean. 3 elite teams had declared it suicide. Marcus saw it differently. He assembled 12 operators, planned for 72 hours straight, and executed the rescue in 11 minutes. Coordinated breach from 3 points. 0 hostage casualties. 47 souls saved.

The Navy Cross ceremony was so classified only 20 people attended, but everyone knew Phoenix 1 had done the impossible. He was 37 and already a legend. His superiors talked openly about admiral’s stars. His team would have followed him anywhere.

Then Sarah got sick.

Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4. The doctors gave her 6 months. She lasted 8.

Marcus fought like it was another mission. Every treatment, every specialist, every experimental option. But cancer does not negotiate. When she died on a Tuesday morning in March, something inside him collapsed. The PTSD he had managed for years came roaring back. Nightmares. Guilt. The contrast haunted him. He had saved 47 strangers and could not save the 1 person he loved.

The VA called. His commanding officer called. His team called. Marcus ignored them all.

3 months after Sarah’s death, he did not report for his new assignment. 6 months later, honorably discharged, the Navy tried to help, but help means nothing to someone who believes he does not deserve it.

Marcus sold everything. He kept only 3 things in a backpack: a photo of Sarah in her yellow dress on his graduation day, a broken military radio from Operation Burning Tide that he cleaned every morning, and a sealed first aid kit he never opened.

Then he disappeared.

For 6 years, Marcus lived under the Veterans Memorial Bridge in San Diego, 3 mi from the naval base, close enough to hear the ship horns, far enough to forget who he used to be.

Life on the streets had its rhythm. Marcus learned where to find food, which alleys were safe, which cops left you alone. He survived on odd jobs, sweeping floors, unloading trucks, collecting cans. He never begged. He never held a sign.

An old Navy veteran named Charlie, who ran a diner, gave Marcus free meals twice a week. He never asked questions. He just slid a plate across the counter and said, “Eat up, brother.”

Others lived under the bridge, too. Tommy, a former Marine with 1 leg. Rita, who had lost her housing when her husband died. Jaden, a young Army veteran fighting heroin. They looked out for one another. When teenagers came throwing rocks, Marcus stood up and stared. Something in his eyes always made them leave. When Rita got pneumonia, Marcus walked her to the VA hospital and waited 6 hours. When Jaden overdosed, Marcus performed CPR until paramedics arrived. He saved Jaden without thinking. It was simply what you did.

Every morning at 0530, Marcus woke by habit. Military discipline was still hardwired into him. He would clean the broken radio, check the empty battery compartment, and set it beside him. It had not worked in 6 years, but cleaning it was ritual. That radio had been with him during Operation Burning Tide. It was the last piece of Phoenix 1 he had left.

On November 14, Marcus sat under the bridge watching the sunset. The sky was orange and red, streaked with wildfire smoke. Tommy tinkered with a broken radio. Rita folded laundry. Jaden scratched at his arms.

Then Marcus heard it.

A security guard walked past talking into his radio. The words were fragmented, but Marcus caught enough. Emergency. Chemical tanker. Communication failure. Baker 23 protocol.

Marcus’s head snapped up.

Baker 23.

He had helped write that protocol in 2008. He knew it inside out.

He listened harder. “Ramage can’t establish link. 23 crew trapped. Fuel tanks critical.”

The Ramage, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. Marcus knew that ship. And if they had a communication failure during a rescue, he knew exactly what was wrong.

Without thinking, Marcus stood.

Tommy looked up. “You good, man?”

Marcus did not answer. His body moved on autopilot. Mission mode. He grabbed his backpack and walked 3 mi to Naval Base San Diego. His mind was clear for the 1st time in years. The fog of depression receded. People were in danger. He could help. That was all that mattered.

At the main gate, 2 guards stood watch. The younger one looked at Marcus with the usual expression, caution threaded with pity.

Marcus stopped 10 ft away. “I need to speak to whoever’s commanding the Ramage. There’s an emergency. I can fix the communication problem.”

The young guard stepped forward. “Sir, you need to move along.”

Marcus did not move. “Your communication with the Coast Guard is down. Baker 23 encryption handshake failure. I wrote that protocol. I know the override codes.”

The guards exchanged glances. The older guard’s expression shifted. “How would you know that?”

“Because I served, and I know those systems better than anyone on that ship.” Marcus’s voice had taken on an edge of authority. “Tell your commanding officer that Phoenix 1 is at the gate.”

The older guard’s eyes widened. “Phoenix 1. That’s … that’s a legend.” He raised his radio with a shaking hand. “Control, this is Gate 7. We have a situation. There’s a homeless individual here who says his call sign is Phoenix 1.”

Silence, then a woman’s voice barely audible through the static. “Say that again.”

“Phoenix 1, ma’am.”

Another pause. “Hold him there. Do not let him leave. Someone’s coming now.”

3 minutes later, a Humvee screeched to a stop. Captain Rachel Pierce stepped out. She was 45, with steel-gray hair and eyes like broken glass. She walked up to Marcus, studying him. The beard. The scar. The eyes.

“You said Phoenix 1,” she said carefully.

Marcus nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Phoenix 1 disappeared 6 years ago. Most think he’s dead.”

“I’m not dead. Just lost.”

Pierce glanced toward the base, where sirens were still wailing. “We have 23 people about to die. If you’re wasting my time—”

“Your encryption won’t sync because the Coast Guard updated their authentication in 2023, but your system runs the 2018 version. You need manual override using Baker 23 emergency protocol. I know the codes that aren’t in any manual.”

Pierce’s eyes widened. Very few people would know that. She weighed the risk for 5 seconds, then said, “Get in.”

Marcus did not know that 40 mi offshore, hell was unfolding.

The MVP Pacific Horizon, a chemical tanker, was burning. The fire had started in the engine room and spread fast. Captain Dimitri Vulov had ordered evacuation to the bow. 23 crew members huddled there with life vests and nowhere to go. Jumping meant landing in burning fuel. Staying meant being consumed when the fire reached the main tanks.

The Coast Guard was responding, but without communication coordination with the USS Ramage, the rescue was chaos. The helicopter could not approach safely. The cutter needed precise positioning. 23 souls watched the fire crawl closer.

26 minutes until the ship became a fireball.

The ride to the Ramage took 4 minutes. Neither Pierce nor Marcus spoke. When they reached the destroyer, she led him directly to the combat information center.

When the door opened and a homeless man walked in, every head turned. The room fell silent.

Lieutenant Commander Derek Voss, the executive officer, stepped forward, face flushed with stress. “Captain, what is this? We have minutes left and you bring in—”

“He says he can fix it,” Pierce said flatly.

“Ma’am, this is insane.”

“You can waste 60 seconds or count 60 bodies, XO.”

Voss’s mouth snapped shut. He stepped aside, radiating fury.

Marcus walked to the communications console where Petty Officer Martinez sat, sweat dripping, hands flying over nonresponsive controls. Marcus gestured to the chair.

“May I?”

Martinez looked at Pierce. She nodded.

Marcus sat. His eyes scanned the screens. Error messages. Authentication failures. His fingers moved without hesitation, driving through system protocols and authentication override sequences. He typed Alpha 7 Niner Echo Tango, his authentication code from Operation Burning Tide.

The screen blinked.

Access granted.

Gasps rippled through CIC.

Marcus picked up the radio. When he spoke, his voice transformed. No longer broken. This was command.

“Coast Guard Station San Diego, this is Phoenix 1. Authentication code Alpha 7 Niner Echo Tango requesting immediate frequency switch to emergency channel Baker 23 for maritime rescue coordination. How copy?”

Static. Then a stunned voice. “Say again your call sign.”

“Phoenix 1. Authentication Alpha 7 Niner Echo Tango.”

A pause. Typing. Then an older voice, shaking. “Phoenix 1, authentication confirmed. Sir, we thought you were gone.”

“I’m here. Switch to Baker 23. Let’s save lives.”

“Roger, sir. Switching now.”

The CIC exploded into silent shock.

Martinez dropped his headset. It clattered loudly against the deck. His hands shook. Captain Pierce stepped back, gripping the table. Her face had gone white. She had studied Operation Burning Tide at the academy. Phoenix 1 was legend.

Master Chief Harold Grant, 60 years old with 35 years of service, felt tears fill his eyes. He had been at sea during Operation Burning Tide. He slowly removed his cover, placed it over his heart, and whispered, “Sir, we thought you were dead.”

Seaman Torres froze against the wall. Her legs failed and she slid down, staring.

Lieutenant Commander Voss stood paralyzed. His skepticism shattered. Shame replaced anger. He stammered, “I … I didn’t know, sir.”

One of the guards dropped his radio. It crashed to the floor.

The Coast Guard’s voice returned. “Phoenix 1, frequency secure. Baker 23 active, sir. It’s an honor.”

Marcus was already coordinating. “Patch me through to helicopter Sierra 3 and cutter Steadfast. I need real-time positioning and thermal imaging of MVP Pacific Horizon. How many souls?”

“23, sir. Fire spreading toward the tanks. 24 minutes to breach.”

“Roger. Initiate evacuation protocol Sierra 5. Steadfast approaches bearing 315 to avoid the fuel slick. Sierra 3, bow extraction only. Wait for my signal.”

“Copy all, Phoenix 1.”

Captain Pierce found her voice. “Master Chief, pull Operation Burning Tide files.”

Grant moved to a terminal. Classified files appeared. Photos. There, in dress whites, stood a younger Marcus. Same scar. Same eyes.

“It’s him,” Grant breathed. “It’s really him.”

Marcus continued. “Sierra 3, what’s your altitude and wind reading?”

“700 ft, Phoenix 1. Winds gusting 30 knots. Approach unstable.”

“Do not approach yet. Winds stabilize in 3 minutes as the fire creates a thermal low. 5-minute window. Descend to 400 and hold.”

“Roger, Phoenix 1, sir. It’s good to have you back.”

“Focus on the mission.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus switched channels. “Steadfast, adjust bearing to 315. You’re drifting toward the fuel slick. Compensate now.”

“Adjusting, Phoenix 1. Sir, it’s an honor.”

“Save honors for after we bring them home. Fire suppression team, concentrate foam on the starboard tanks. That’s where the breach occurs first.”

“Copy.”

Marcus pulled up thermal imaging. “Pacific Horizon, this is Phoenix 1. Do you copy?”

A desperate Greek-accented voice answered. “Yes. Yes, please. We need help. Fire is close.”

“Captain Vulov, help is 3 minutes out. Move your crew to the forward bow, away from structures. I need them visible from the air. Life vests on. No one goes in the water.”

“Understood. Yes. We do this. Thank you.”

Marcus’s voice softened. “You’re going to be okay, Captain. I promise.”

He switched back again. “Sierra 3, thermal low forming. You have your window. Descend. Approach bearing 090. Deploy rescue swimmer.”

“Roger, Phoenix 1.”

12 minutes later, Marcus had every piece in motion. The helicopter descended through smoke. The cutter approached. Foam cannons deployed. Fire suppression drones swept the after tanks. Every element moved in perfect harmony.

1 by 1, crew members were hoisted out. The Filipino cook. The Indonesian engineer. The Indian deckhand. 1 by 1.

“2 more,” Marcus said. “You’re doing great. 2 more.”

Then, “22. Last one coming up.”

“Captain refused to leave until his crew was safe.”

Marcus smiled slightly. “That’s a good captain.”

The last soul was secured. “Phoenix 1,” the pilot said, voice breaking, “you did it, sir.”

Marcus set down the handset. His hands began to shake now, the adrenaline fading. He stood slowly, aware of every eye on him.

Captain Pierce stepped forward. “Commander Holay.”

Hearing his rank after 6 years landed like a blow.

Pierce’s eyes were red. “Where have you been?”

Marcus looked down at his dirty hands. “Lost, ma’am. Very lost.”

Master Chief Grant stepped forward and rendered the sharpest salute of his career. “Sir, it is the greatest honor of my life to see you again.”

Marcus’s hand came up, shaking, but the salute was perfect.

1 by 1, everyone in CIC came to attention. Martinez. Torres. The officers. Even Voss. Captain Pierce. The entire combat information center stood in salute to a homeless veteran for 2 full minutes.

Marcus felt something crack open inside him. Tears came, silent and hot. He did not wipe them away.

When the salutes dropped, Voss approached, voice barely audible. “Sir, I had no idea. I should have listened. I’m so sorry.”

Marcus shook his head. “You were protecting your crew, Lieutenant. You did nothing wrong.”

But Voss would carry that lesson for the rest of his life.

Captain Pierce led Marcus to her ready room. Inside, she leaned against her desk and let the silence settle.

“Commander,” she said finally, “I studied Operation Burning Tide at the academy. Required reading. You saved 47 people. Did the impossible. You’re a legend. And you’ve been living under a bridge.”

Marcus looked out the porthole. “I saved 47 strangers, Captain. Couldn’t save my wife. What kind of hero does that make me?”

“A human 1.”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t deserve help. After Sarah died, the guilt, the nightmares. I thought I used up all my saves.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

Marcus turned back toward her. “I felt like my punishment was deserved for saving everyone except the 1 person I loved.”

Pierce stepped closer. “Commander, with respect, that’s not your call. You just saved 23 more lives in 14 minutes. You still have the skill, the instinct, the leadership. It didn’t die.”

“I’m broken, Captain.”

“So was the comm system. You fixed that too.”

She pulled out a form. “I’m offering immediate accommodation on base, full access to naval hospital for treatment, PTSD specialists, counseling, and when you’re ready, only when you’re ready, a consulting position coordinating maritime operations. No pressure. No timeline. Just a way back.”

Marcus stared at the form.

For 6 years, he had believed there was no way back.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to know today. Just don’t sleep under a bridge tonight. Let us help you.”

Marcus left her office in a daze. Master Chief Grant was waiting outside, holding Marcus’s backpack and the broken radio.

“Sir,” Grant said, “I took the liberty. Brought this to our electronic shop.”

Marcus frowned. “Chief, that’s been dead for years.”

Grant smiled. “Not anymore.”

He handed it over. The radio had been restored. Clean. Functional. On the side, an engraved plate read: Phoenix 1. Never forgotten.

Marcus’s hands trembled. “Chief, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Welcome home.”

That night, Marcus was given a room in base housing. A clean bed, a working shower, a window overlooking the harbor. He stood under the hot water for 20 minutes, watching 6 years of dirt wash away.

When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself.

But there was something new in his eyes. Or maybe something old returning.

He sat by the window in borrowed Navy sweats, the restored radio beside him. Outside, ships moved in darkness, lights like stars. He thought about Sarah. About the 47 from Operation Burning Tide. About the 23 from that day. About the 14 minutes in which he had felt like himself again.

The radio crackled.

“Harbor Patrol 7 to all stations, radio check.”

Marcus stared at it. Then his hand hovered, pressed transmit, and answered.

“Harbor Patrol 7, this is Phoenix 1, radio check.”

A pause. Then: “Phoenix 1, we read you 5 by 5. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Marcus closed his eyes. A small smile touched his mouth.

“Good to be heard.”

Part 2

The days that followed were strange.

Marcus was given clothes. He met with Navy psychologist Dr. Patricia Keane. The 1st session was difficult. He said almost nothing for 30 minutes. Finally he broke the silence with the only truth he trusted.

“I saved 47 people. Then my wife died. I couldn’t save her. I feel like I used up all my saves.”

Dr. Keane nodded. “Do you believe saving people works like a quota?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“The 23 on the Pacific Horizon—do they matter?”

Marcus looked up sharply. “Of course.”

“Then you’re not empty.”

A small crack appeared in the wall.

Word spread through the base. Phoenix 1 was there. Some sailors wanted to meet him. Others saluted when they saw him. Marcus found it overwhelming.

Lieutenant Commander Voss requested a formal meeting. They met in a conference room. Voss stood stiffly, visibly uncomfortable.

“Sir, I wanted to apologize formally. The way I treated you was inexcusable.”

Marcus interrupted him gently. “Lieutenant, you were doing your job. You didn’t know who I was.”

“But I dismissed you because you were homeless.”

“Yes. You did.”

Voss flinched.

“That was wrong.”

“It was. But you learned. That’s what matters.”

Master Chief Grant visited every morning at 0800 with coffee. He never talked about anything heavy. He was simply there, a steady presence, saying with his actions what he did not need to say aloud: you are not alone.

The nightmares still came.

3 nights after the rescue, Marcus woke screaming, unable to breathe, dragged back into the firefight of memory. Except in the dream it was Sarah he was trying to save, and she turned to ash in his hands. He sat on the floor shaking for an hour.

The next day he told Dr. Keane.

“That’s normal,” she said. “Trauma doesn’t disappear because you did something heroic. Healing isn’t linear.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is that broken doesn’t mean useless. You saved 23 people while broken. You’re stronger than you think.”

1 week after the rescue, the crew of the Pacific Horizon wanted to meet him. Marcus resisted until Captain Pierce insisted.

“They need to thank you. You don’t have to feel like a hero. Just let them say thank you.”

23 people stood and applauded when Marcus entered. The sound hit him like surf against rock, overwhelming and impossible to hold.

Captain Dimitri Vulov approached, crying openly. “You saved my crew, my brothers. We owe you everything.”

Marcus shook his head. “I just did what needed to be done.”

“No,” Vulov said. “You did what no 1 else could. You are hero.”

1 by 1, they approached. Shook his hand. Hugged him. Thanked him in voices thick with relief.

The Filipino cook gave him a small wooden cross. “For protection. You gave us ours. Now we give you yours.”

A young Indonesian engineer said, crying, “I have daughter, 2 years old. Because of you, I see her again.”

An Indian deckhand handed him a bracelet. “We made this. All of us. Something from each. So you remember you saved us. You matter.”

Marcus held the bracelet like it was gold.

These were ordinary people alive because he had walked 3 mi and said, I can help. Maybe that mattered.

2 weeks later, Marcus started attending a support group for homeless veterans. He sat in the back in silence through 3 sessions, listening.

Robert, living in his car. Linda, struggling with alcoholism. Carlos, living with traumatic brain injury. They all had stories. All had pain. Marcus realized he was not alone.

On the 4th session, he finally spoke.

“I’m Marcus. Navy. Lived under the Veterans Memorial Bridge 6 years. I thought I didn’t deserve help. Thought I’d failed the 1 person who mattered. But 2 weeks ago I helped save 23 people. I realized I’m still broken. Still have nightmares. Still miss my wife every day. But broken doesn’t mean useless. It doesn’t mean invisible. It doesn’t mean finished. I can still help. I can still matter. So can you.”

It was not a grand speech. It was just honest. But it resonated. Afterward, 3 veterans approached him. They asked for help navigating the VA. They asked whether he really believed what he had said. Marcus helped them because that was what you did.

3 weeks later, Master Chief Grant returned Marcus’s sealed first aid kit.

“Thought you might want to use this.”

Marcus stared at it. He had carried it for 6 years without opening it. He tore it open. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze, tools to heal.

He laughed bitterly. “I’ve been carrying this the whole time and never opened it.”

Grant nodded. “Yeah. Most of us do. We carry what we need to heal. We just don’t use it.”

“Why?”

“Because using it means admitting we’re hurt. And that means admitting we’re not invincible.”

“I’m not invincible.”

“No, sir. None of us are. But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

1 month after the rescue, Marcus had a breakthrough in therapy.

Dr. Keane asked the question he had been avoiding. “What would Sarah want for you?”

Marcus stiffened. “Don’t.”

“I think it’s important. You said she told you to let go. What did she mean?”

“She meant let her die in peace.”

“And have you let her go?”

Marcus’s voice broke. “No. If I let her go, she’s really gone.”

“Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It means you stop punishing yourself for something you could not control.”

Marcus covered his face. The sobs came then, the ones he had held back for 6 years. “I couldn’t save her. She was everything. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” Dr. Keane said quietly. “Cancer isn’t a mission. You did everything possible. She knew that. She loved you. She wanted you to live.”

He cried for 20 minutes while she sat with him. When he could finally breathe again, she said, “Sarah would want you to live, Commander. Not just survive. Live.”

Marcus wiped his face. “I don’t know how.”

“One day at a time,” she said. “1 transmission. 1 breath. 1 day.”

2 months after the rescue, Captain Pierce approached him with a formal offer.

“Commander, I’m formally offering you a consulting position. Part-time. Maritime operations, training, emergency coordination. Only when you’re ready.”

Marcus looked at the papers. “What if I’m never ready?”

“Then you’re not. But I don’t think that’s true. I think Phoenix 1 is ready to fly again when you are.”

Marcus thought about the 23 people from the Pacific Horizon. About the bracelet. About the cross. About what Dr. Keane had said. About 1 day at a time.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll try.”

Pierce smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

Part 3

6 months passed.

Marcus attended therapy twice a week. The nightmares lessened, though they never disappeared. He helped at the homeless veteran support group. He consulted on 2 maritime operations. He was still healing, still fighting PTSD, still missing Sarah, but he was no longer homeless, no longer invisible, no longer lost.

1 year after the rescue, the base held a small ceremony. Just the Ramage crew, Harbor Patrol, and a few others. Captain Pierce presented Marcus with a formal consultant commission. Master Chief Grant, now retired, stood beside him in dress blues. Lieutenant Commander Voss gave a speech about judgment and redemption.

Marcus, clean-shaven now and wearing a simple shirt and slacks, stood before them. He still had the scar. He still carried the grief. But he also carried something else now.

“I’m not going to say I’m fixed,” he began. “I’m not. PTSD doesn’t disappear. Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. But being broken doesn’t mean being useless. Doesn’t mean being invisible. Doesn’t mean being forgotten.”

He held up the wooden cross the cook had given him.

“A year ago, I was nobody. Just another homeless veteran under a bridge. Then I heard a call for help. For 14 minutes, I remembered who I used to be. But those 14 minutes weren’t about going back. They were about going forward. Being Phoenix 1 isn’t about the past. It’s about rising again and again no matter how many times you fall.”

He looked down at the cross in his hand.

“23 people gave me this. They didn’t see a homeless man. They saw someone who helped. That’s the lesson. Every person you pass on the street has a story. Some are veterans. Some are heroes. Some just need someone to believe in them. Don’t judge by appearance. Don’t dismiss by circumstance. Because the person you overlook today might be the person who saves your life tomorrow.”

Applause filled the room. Not for Phoenix 1 the legend, but for Marcus Holay the man.

That evening, Marcus returned to the Veterans Memorial Bridge. Not to live there. To visit.

He placed a small plaque on the concrete where he had slept.

Phoenix 1 slept here. He rose.

Then he walked back to base. Back to his room. Back to his life.

The radio crackled on his desk. “Phoenix 1, this is Harbor Patrol 7. Routine check. How copy?”

Marcus smiled and picked it up.

“Harbor Patrol 7, this is Phoenix 1. I read you loud and clear. And I’m still here.”

He set it down and looked out at the ocean. The same ocean where he had led missions, where he had saved lives, where he had found purpose, then lost it, then found it again.

He was not healed. Maybe he never would be completely. The nightmares still came. The grief remained permanent. But he had something now that he had not had before.

Hope.

And maybe that was what rising from the ashes really meant. Not being reborn perfect and whole, but being willing to try again. To believe you still mattered. To know that broken did not mean finished.

Phoenix 1 had fallen.

But phoenixes, by their very nature, always rise.