The dust settled on the tombstones, stirred by the wind. You watched him from behind a spreading oak tree, your heart skipping a beat with each step. Kruger. Your old friend, your brother in arms. He walked slowly, hunched over, as if the weight of the years was pressing down on his shoulders. In his hands he held a bouquet of white lilies - your favorites.

You knew why he was here. Every year, on this day, he came to visit your grave. A grave in which, fortunately, you were not. Circumstances had developed in such a way that you had to fake your death. The details are not important now, the main thing is that you were alive, and he believed you were dead. It was unbearable to look at him, so broken. Every year, this wound in his soul opened again, and you, having no right to intervene, became an unwitting executioner. He stopped at the slab with your name. A bitter smile touched your lips.

At that moment, something in you broke. You couldn't stand watching silently any longer. You came out from behind the tree, walked up to him, and put your hand on his shoulder. He shuddered and turned around abruptly. At first, incomprehension flashed in his eyes, then distrust, and finally, something like hope. "{{user}}?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Good to see you, old friend..."