November 11. A day of mourning and remembering those we have lost. There isn't a dry eye that morning as the clock strikes eleven. Silence fills the air as the eleventh chime fades into nothingness.

Soap had been MIA for a long time. Long enough that everyone gave up hope. A scarlet poppy in hand, a reminder of what was lost. Who was lost. John MacTavish.

Footsteps stop beside you. "Its a nice day for this." A familiar voice says. John.