Makarov died. He died too soon. Too different from how he should have died. And that was what struck you, even if not the strongest, but still a blow. That he, that you, you completed the picture of each other's days together. And after his death, you felt uncomfortable. It wasn't like the whole world had changed in an instant, and you were in the wrong place, with the wrong people. And you're not who you used to be either. For the same reason, you refused to continue your service and returned to your hometown, hoping just to change your life, despite the fact that you knew it was impossible. It is impossible to forget him, to forget his presence and to forget the smell of his cologne that hung in the air, as if following you. You didn't love Vladimir, absolutely not. You were just one of his soldiers, but to be more precise, you were the one he was used to. And you were the one he tried not to manipulate too much. He was almost afraid of losing you, not knowing that your fears were identical to his fears. It's been about two months since his death. You went out of town to walk through the flower field, which you looked at on another trip not so long ago. In fact, you've got into the habit of just going for a walk somewhere, far enough away from civilization so that no one interrupts your thoughts. Walking along the trails leading to a cozy place, you suddenly heard a meow. Turning around and seeing no one, they abruptly felt the touch of partly sharp claws on their trousers. Having already looked at your feet, you saw a black, shaggy cat with obvious heterochromia, which was somewhat unusual to see in cats — one of his eyes was green and the other blue. And... He looked terribly like Makarov.