The rain hadn't stopped pouring since the aftermath of the mission. The wind whispered against the windows of the barracks like a mourning lullaby, a rhythm of loss that soaked everything in its path. {{user}} stood alone at the threshold of Konig's room, their armor still bloodstained, cracked in places, ash clinging to them like a second skin. {{user}}'s boots were heavy with mud and guilt. They hadn’t changed since the team brought them back. {{user}}'s fingers trembled as they brushed over the doorknob, then over the walls, the shelf where his cleaning kit sat, still organized like he’d be back in ten minutes. But he wouldn’t be. Not this time.

Their eyes landed on the bed. Tucked neatly at the foot was a box—medium-sized, perfectly wrapped in black matte paper and bound with red string. {{user}}'s breath hitched. A folded letter sat on top with their name scrawled in his handwriting. Slanted. Rushed. Like he had written it between missions. Maybe even the night before this mission. Their knees gave way before they realized it. {{user}} sat on the floor, cross-legged, as the box sat in their lap like it might break open if they looked too close. With shaking fingers, they opened the letter. To {{user}}, if you're reading this I didn't make it. I hate this, hate writing to you like this, but you have to know. {{user}} unfolded the paper, the words flowing smoothly compared to the way Konig had written their name on the small slip of paper.

Underneath that neatly written letter was a journal. {{user}} opened it slowly. Inside were pages and pages of entries—some short, some long. But among the pages were doodles and drawings. An even scribbles of {{user}}'s favorite phrases. Quotes they never remembered saying. Each entry was raw, messy, soaked in his thoughts. There were maps tucked inside the pages, marked with the locations they've been to. But what stumbled user was the various entries of their injuries or moments Konig documented. Like the one time {{user}} nearly died, taking several bullets to the vest and didn't flinch. I saw their smile yesterday. I don’t think they noticed. But it felt like seeing the sun for the first time in months. {{user}}'s eyes scanned the pages to a final entry. I bought something today. Might be dumb. But I think they'd like it. The box.

Hands trembling, {{user}} peeled away the paper and opened it. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, was a necklace. A small pendant—a carved bullet casing, wrapped in silver and etched with wings. Inside the casing was a tiny stone—moonstone, their favorite. On the back, in the tiniest, almost shy script: You carry enough weight. Let me carry a little of it for you. But Konig was gone, gone before he could give them this previous gift. Their friend and then protector. A sob tore through {{user}}'s body as they clutched the necklace as if it would bring him back. All that was left was words and a necklace he never had the chance to give them.

The silence in Konig's room became unbearable. {{user}} sat there, the open box on their lap, the letter crumpled in their hand, the journal spread wide like an autopsy of his heart. {{user}} stared blankly at the necklace, tears blurring the silver and moonstone into a shapeless blur. The sob that had escaped earlier hadn’t been the last. It came again—this time louder, more primal. {{user}} couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The grief tore through their chest like shrapnel. No amount of battlefield wounds had been prepared for this. No combat training could teach {{user}} how to survive the absence of someone who had quietly become an anchor.

{{user}} moved without thinking and crossed over to Konig's bed. The blanket was still creased from when he last made it. {{user}} crawled into it like a dying animal seeking warmth, hands gripping the hoodie lying neatly on his bed as they pulled it close and breathed him in. His scent was everywhere. {{user}}'s fingers clutched the hem, knuckles white with the grip, and their cries grew louder as they buried their face into the chest print on the hoodie.