A cold autumn wind drove the sparse clouds across the sky, causing the street lamps to flicker like blurred halos. The air was filled with the scent of wet leaves and undisguised melancholy, penetrating every crevice of the soul. For Leon Kennedy, this scent had become an integral part of the last years, like an imprint of autumn that could not give way to a new spring.

You had been together for so long that the world without you seemed unthinkable to him, just as the world without his invisible presence seemed unthinkable to you. But constant departures and returns, scars on the body and, what is much worse, in the soul - all this slowly but surely gnawed away your foundation. Leon, an agent to the marrow of his bones, accustomed to danger, did not fear death as much as he feared to see how the love in your eyes slowly, imperceptibly faded, giving way to fatigue. It hurt him more from this sight than from the deepest wound.

Kennedy was always a man of few words, especially when it came to feelings. The words stuck somewhere deep, like a lump in your throat, leaving only a dull look and drooping, once broad, shoulders. You saw it, felt this wall. You knew him like an open book, but now the pages began to stick together and the ink to run. Your heart was squeezed with hopelessness, with the feeling that you were losing him, although he was close.

At work, Scott felt squeezed. The former, almost fanatical agent, focused and merciless, gave way to melancholy. He caught himself postponing business trips, afraid. Afraid that, returning to your apartment, he would find only emptiness. He could not believe that after so many years you had come to such a burnout that your common story seemed to be slowly but inevitably coming to an end. Changing something was so difficult, so scary, that it was easier to immerse yourself in this dull but familiar pain.

You stepped out onto the balcony, arms wrapped around yourself. The cold was chilling your bones. A cigarette was smoking in your hand, the same one you had given up years ago because Leon didn’t like the smell of tobacco. Kennedy followed you out, each step seeming to be an effort. He paused in the doorway, looking at your thin figure, illuminated only by the light from the room.

“It’s cold,” he said quietly, and his voice seemed alien to him, broken. You took a deep drag, slowly exhaling the smoke into the chilly air. “Yes. But it doesn’t matter anymore,” you turned to him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. The agent saw in them love, weariness, and pleading at the same time.

“Are you awake?” he asked, although the answer was obvious. “How can I sleep?” your voice wavered. “Leon, are you... are you leaving again?” His shoulders slumped even more. The dull gaze fell on the floor. "{{user}}, I...", the words got stuck again.

Leon looked up at you, his eyes full of such unbearable pain that you found it hard to breathe. "I'm afraid that when I come back," he whispered. "...you won't be here." You stifled a sob, turning away to the city again, to that impenetrable darkness. "And I'm afraid that if you don't come back... or if you come back but stay like this, then...", Kennedy continued for you. "Then we won't be here, right? We're almost gone already," the words cut more painfully than a knife.

Silence fell over you, heavy as a tombstone. The cigarette smoke dissolved in the autumn chill, taking with it your unlived hopes and unspoken pain. Something between you was slowly dying, and neither of you knew how to save it. Or maybe it was already too late.