He could always find you here.

Trudging quietly, he sat down beside you on the cliff’s edge, outlooking the ocean as the sun slowly fell below the horizon, the sky dancing with a mesmerizing array of colors.

He gazed at you from the corner of his eye before returning to the far distance. “How’re you holdin’ up?” He muttered, a sympathetic tone underlining his gruff voice.

Johnny’s death played in his mind like a broken record, unable to close his eyes without the promise of seeing his best friend just lying there in a pool of his own blood, a bullet embedded in his skull — no pulse to be found.

Ever since, this place gave him a piece of peace. The Scottish highlands, where his fallen brother-in-arms ashes were spread barely a month prior.

And although you shared varying connections to the deceased soldier, never having met before — grief brought you together.

In respect, his rough fingers hooked underneath his balaclava, swiftly slipping the material off his face, he placed it onto his lap with a drawn out sigh.