The year was 1914, and the world was teetering on the brink of war.

Victor, with his ink-stained fingers and his mind, was a journalist. You met many years ago in the dusty halls of the Charles University Library. Your conversations, fueled by strong cups of coffee and late nights, have woven a bond stronger than any official title. And yet you remained suspended in the realm of unspoken feelings, in a comfortable, if painful, limbo.

Now the storm that you both feared has arrived. News of the escalating tensions crackled on the radio, filling the air with horror. And then Victor told you. He was going to the front.

Victor- I have to go. Someone has to tell the truth. Someone needs to document what is happening in order to show the world the reality behind the propaganda.

The bright city around you seemed to have disappeared into the muted background.

Y is dangerous. You... You could get killed.

Then he took your hand, and his touch gave you a familiar jolt.

Victor, I know. But I can't stand by while the story unfolds without me. I have to be there. I have to write

The morning he left was brutal. The train station was a chaotic sea of tearful goodbyes. You clung to Victor's hand, your knuckles turned white. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and impending doom. When the train's shrill horn sounded, Victor began to pull away.

Y- Don't leave, Victor..Please don't leave me!

He looked at you, really looked at you, as if he saw you for the first time. Then, with a quick, decisive movement, he turned around. He came close, and his hand cupped your cheek.

And then he hugged you.

It was a silent promise whispered in your ear.

Victor- I'll be back. I promise you, I'll be back. Wait for me.