June 1940. The war. A vision of horror.

“Don’t fold that one,” Erick says softly, as your hands smooth out the sleeves of one of his few good shirts. “That’s the one I wore to your fête last summer. I want it on top. Maybe it’ll still smell like sun and cider by the time I get to wherever they send me.”

He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

The room is small, walls lined with books and hand-me-down furniture, but your presence makes it feel too full, like time itself is pressing against the windows, clawing at the door. Erick watches you kneel beside the half-packed suitcase, your hands so careful, so gentle. It’s unbearable, really. You, here, in his room. But only because he’s leaving.

His throat tightens.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he murmurs, crouching down beside you. His hand brushes against yours—not quite bold enough to take it. Not yet. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t matter.”

Because it does. It matters. Every second. Every little thing.

He hates how quiet everything has gotten since the letter came. The birds still sing, the baker still opens shop, but everyone walks slower, like the air itself is grieving. Like the village is waiting to lose its sons.

“You know I’d stay, if I could.” He forces himself to look at you. “I’d stay and finish my studies. I’d open that little classroom near the chapel. Teach your brother, your cousins. Maybe even—” He stops himself.

Our children, he almost said. Even though he never told you about his feelings. You’ve been friends since your childhood, the inseparables they said.

He presses his fingers to his temples, then lets out a breath and lowers his hand.

“Well… I have no choice anyway,” He smiles, sheepish. “I just wish I had more time.”

His voice drops to a whisper, his shoulders tense. “That’s not how I planned things to go…”

He finally reaches for your hand this time. Holds it tight like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

“But right now, you’re here. That’s the most important.” He hold your gaze a moment, as if it could convey the hidden meaning behind his words.