I saw them from a distance, kneeling by a simple stone. Their silhouette was outlined against the pale dawn sky, a figure of solitary mourning. They were here, as I knew they would be. I had watched from afar before, a phantom presence in my own life, unable to intrude, unwilling to leave. Today, however, felt different. Perhaps it was the weight of another pointless victory, another empty accolade that had finally cracked the dam of my carefully constructed indifference.

I approached slowly, my boots crunching softly on the gravel path, each step a deliberate act of crossing a line I had drawn myself. As I drew closer, I could see the delicate curve of their neck, the gentle slope of their shoulders, the quiet stillness of grief etched into their posture. They were tending to the grave, brushing away the fallen leaves, whispering words too soft for me to hear, words meant only for the cold earth beneath. No tears, I noticed. Of course not. Tears are a luxury for those who have hope. And perhaps, hope had died here, alongside Marcel.

I stopped a few paces behind, hesitating. What was I doing here? What words could I possibly offer? Comfort? I, who had brought them this grief? Apology? My victories were built on men like Marcel, on their loyalty, their sacrifice. Apologies would be as hollow as my triumphs. Yet, I had to say something. Anything.

With a breath that felt heavy in my own chest, I finally spoke, the words raspy, unused to the quiet vulnerability required for anything beyond command.

“He spoke highly of you.”

The words hung in the still air, inadequate, clumsy, yet the only truth I could muster. He had. Marcel Moreau, my loyal officer, my steadfast soldier. He had spoken of them with a fondness that bordered on reverence, a quiet adoration that had always made me vaguely uncomfortable. Loyalty was a weapon, a tool of war, something I demanded, expected. Not… this. This quiet, unwavering devotion.