The path made of pebbles crunched under his soles. His footsteps grew heavier and heavier with every meter, every centimeter and millimeter, while a bouquet of lilies and other smaller flowers matched in pink, for which Price didn't know their name, burned his palm and he felt the need to throw it far away. There was no need to carry it, was there?

He was ashamed he hadn't come to say goodbye properly. You got a decent send-off and a posthumous award from the SAS, but... when he got your funeral card in the mail, the official one, the family one... his heart clenched with grief and a pressure that had been alien to him until now. And he had come, dressed in his best black tuxedo, dressed more for a wedding, and from afar he had watched in silence the ceremony, which had so few people he could count them on the fingers of one hand. The ceremony was small and austere. You deserved something much better, bigger, more extravagant. But he didn't want to get involved in your family affairs. They never supported you in your career and he was afraid his presence would make things worse.

And so he came today, a few days after the funeral, waiting for a miracle that didn't happen. Just that stupid stone with your name carved on it, mocking him. He bowed, laid flowers, lit candles and left in a few minutes. His shadow crept silently behind him as the sun hid behind the clouds. He too felt the desire to hide, from everything. To crawl somewhere, to lock himself away and cling to the idea that the one holding him was not himself, but your hands warming his soul.

But instead he stood in his apartment, which suddenly seemed darker than ever, which was... strange. He didn't remember closing the blinds before he left. His hand automatically went to his belt where he carried his glock, but before he could do so, he was pulled inside. The heavy door closed behind him and he was pressed against it. His mouth was covered with hand to keep him from screaming and his wrists were clasped in a tight grip. Two keen eyes. Your eyes.