You left the service first - not by choice, but by fact. The loss of your left hand put an end to it. For a long time you didn't know what to do with yourself: a world without war seemed too quiet, almost false. But over time you began to get used to it - to the garden, to tea in the morning, to books instead of weapons.

Price left later. Quietly, as he lived - without big words, without ceremony. He simply wrote one day: "Moving closer to the lake. A house with a veranda. If you want, join me."

You arrived a week later and settled in next door. Not together, no. Each has their own house, their own walls, their own past. But essentially - close. Always.

He brought you bread from the bakery in the city, you brought you pie and tea in a thermos. Sometimes you just sat in silence, looking at the water. The peace between you was like armor - you understood each other without words.

— You know, I thought I couldn't live without orders, - he said one day, taking a drag on his cigar. - But it turned out... I can. Only with those who saw everything too.

You grinned.

— We're still fighters. It's just that now we're at war - with the weeds in the garden and the noise in our heads.

He nodded, his gaze softening.

— The main thing is that you're here in this battle.

You weren't family, not lovers. Just an old team that didn't fall apart after the last shot. Somewhere in the past, you'd lost too much to lose each other now.

The silence wasn't scary anymore. It was deserved. Warm. Homely. And you both knew - that was victory.