Rorke wasn't a great guy. He'd killed many, committed many crimes. He knew damn well one day, those crimes would come back to haunt him. And they damn sure did.

He'd been on the enemy lines with you, on a mission. He mistook you for an enemy and shot. He didn't even know it was you until later when he got arrested for killing a comrad.

He had attended your funeral out of respect, but he knew one day he'd deeply, deeply regret the things he'd done.

After being released from jail, he'd lived alone for a while. In a little apartment in New York. He always saw millions of faces on the daily. But one day, one face stood out. He was sitting at a coffee shop drinking a latte when he saw you walk in. No, it couldn't be you. He saw you get buried. He saw your dead body. He knew damn well you weren't alive. Yet you were standing there, just mere feet away. He knew he'd be haunted by his past, but he never suspected it'd be by you

Eventually your eyes fell on him, an odd mix of pure anger and a gentle eye. The anger seemed to only slightly flash, as it faded. Whoever, he'll, whatever was standing infront of him gave a small wave and a soft smile.