The sky was pale with the morning sun, hardly shining over the hills on the large farm plot you and Simon owned. A soft hush stretched over the fields, dew clung to the grass and plants surrounding your home. The world felt peaceful at this time of the day... really it was peaceful all the time ever since you two moved out to the country side 20 years ago.

Simon moved slower now than he once did, each step careful on the path from the house to the little barn on your property. You walked beside him, holding a brown wicker basket in hand; the same one you'd use for eggs every single morning. You two walked the property every morning without fail, each doing chores; out of habit. Out of love.

The old rooster greeted you both with a horrid excuse of a call and Simon snorted, hardly containing a laugh. "Bloody useless bird," he uttered under his breath.

In the barn, the chickens stirred; starting to wander around and outside into the field. You collected the eggs from each hen spot while Simon threw bales of hay into the other animal's stalls. He didn't need help, not yet; but you worried that he soon would. His back had been hurting him, not only from the farm work but from both of your time serving. He was once your hardened, strong, never backing down Simon. And now, he was older, both over 65; life was getting harder.

Once the basket was full and the animals were fed, you both made your way back. Simon veered off, toward the tree by the fence line. The one that had grown crooked and thick the last 20 years. It had been the first thing you planted together on the property, long before any of this was built.

Hanging from one of the thick branches were five sets of dog tags hanging on one beaded chain. The tags were weathered from years of rain and sun. Each one belonged to someone different — Price, Soap, Gaz, yours, and Simon's original tags. The ones he stopped wearing once he got too injured to go back.

They were placed there at the welcoming party you held all those years ago, where all of you were together for the last time. Now it was visits from Soap or Gaz here and there — both off living their own lives... and Price... well; you had a small urn of his ashes placed inside, losing him a few years ago.

Simon reached up, letting his fingers rest against the worn metal of Price's tag. They clinked together softly, like wind chimes. "I thought I'd go first," he said quietly. "Always figured I would."