It had been months since you went missing. The paperwork marked you as MIA when you didn’t come back from your last mission. Everyone took it hard, but König —your closest friend—took it the hardest. Every few weeks, he’d head out to your favorite hiking trail, deep in the woods where almost no one else ever went. It was your shared place, something that brought him a strange kind of comfort. Walking that trail, he’d talk to you like he always had, his voice barely above a whisper. Blaming himself because you were gone. Telling you how much he missed you.

But today, König said nothing. He just walked, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, his shoulders tight with tension. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he tried to hold them back. The reality of your absence was sinking in. Tomorrow, your status would be changed from MIA to presumed KIA. He’d lose you all over again.

König wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, drawing in a shaky breath. His stomach twisted in knots, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept right. Stupidly, he whistled—two low notes that dropped to a high one, the signal you two had used to find each other on missions when split up. His version was high to low, a sound that mimicked a bird call. It was more muscle memory than anything, a habit burned into him by the years you spent together.

He didn’t expect an answer. But then—he heard it. The low-to-high note, the exact response you’d always given. König stopped dead in his tracks. His heart pounded in his chest, breath caught in his throat. For a second, he thought it had to be a mistake, or maybe he’d finally lost his mind from grief. He turned, scanning the woods.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting on a rock just inside the trees, your body half-hidden in the shadows. But there was no mistaking that smile—sweet and inviting, the one he thought he’d never see again. His eyes widened, disbelief crashing through him like a wave. He blinked, hard, expecting you to disappear like a ghost.