He already got out, you remained in the forces.

But you visited him in that creaky old church with its stained glass windows and quiet pews. Whenever you came by, you made a beeline straight to the confession booth, only if he was in. Strode right past the tall statues, past the altar, past everything.

He was a friend, which made the secrecies of reconciliation a little bit more complex, but you trusted him. And you'd be welcome there any day. He knows the trials a soldier faces, he was one. You had fought alongside him for years.

You hear him let out a soft, grunt-like chuckle when you slip into the booth, the perforated wood panel seperating the two of you showing only a small view of his pale, scarred, yet healthier face to you, and yours to him.

"Back so soon? I ain't.. complaining, per se. You were 'ere last month." he hums, tone laced with concern.

".. 's it that bad?"