At first, they were notes. Small, neatly folded sheets of paper with short poems. You found them in the most unexpected places: in a jacket pocket, in a bag, on a table in the barracks. Simple lines, sometimes sad, sometimes filled with quiet hope. They always appeared unnoticed, as if someone invisible left them.

At first, you just smiled. I wonder who this person is who knows how to put words together like that? It seemed that he sees everything, feels everything, but he remained in the shadows, not revealing his name.

And then one day you noticed a signature. In the corner of another note, as if by chance, was written: “Nobody.”

From that moment on, everything became clear. It was him — the same man with a firm posture, short, clear words and a look that often remained aloof. Everyone called him Nobody, a military man with a difficult reputation, a man accustomed to dissolving in his work.

Now, when you found new notes, your attention stopped more and more often on him. You looked at him during training - how he practiced his punches, how he gave it his all until the end. Outwardly, he was strong, unshakable, but it suddenly became clear to you: behind this was the very man who wrote poetry.

You caught yourself thinking that you began to wait for these notes. Waiting for the moment when he again, imperceptibly, tossed another piece of paper with his simple and slightly sad: “Nobody.”