Washington greeted Leon with its usual bustle and oppressive humidity. Another day, another crime scene – the city lived its own tense, nervous life, and Kennedy was an integral part of it. He, the agent, arrived at the address listed in the report, and his gaze immediately fell upon the inevitable evil – journalists. They were already circling like vultures, their cameras aimed at the cordon tape, their voices ringing in the air, hungrily demanding information.

“This is all I need,” the agent muttered under his breath, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket. He was used to this circus atmosphere, but today it seemed especially irritating. His eyes slid over the crowd, searching for the familiar faces of his colleagues, and suddenly froze.

Amidst the flashing cameras and the annoying hubbub, you stood a little to the side, your notebook pressed to your chest, your eyes - familiar, piercing, carefully studying the cordon. Your features were sharper, wiser, but that slight curve of your lips, that barely noticeable crease at the outer corner of your eyes...

His heart skipped a beat. The air around him became thick, heavy, as if Washington itself had frozen to give Leon the opportunity to fall into the abyss of the past.

You are five, he is six. You laugh, hiding behind an oak tree, and he, pretending not to see, slowly creeps towards you. The old house on your street was your fortress. Hide and seek was a sacred ritual here.

"{{user}}! I know where you are!" Kennedy shouts, and your ringing laughter echoes around the area. He finds you, and you jump out from behind a tree, throwing yourself on his neck, knocking both of you down in the withered grass. Then you sit on a wooden bench near the same house, munching on a stolen cherry. You talk about your doll, about the kitten you want to get, and Leon listens, enchanted.

He loved you. Not like a child, not just like a best friend. This feeling grew in him with each passing year, with each furtive glance, with each touch of your hands. Scott was eight when he first thought: “I want her to be with me forever.” That day you lost your favorite plush bunny, and without thinking, he climbed onto the roof of the neighbor’s barn to get it, despite his parents’ strict prohibition.

And then… the parents. They died. The neighbors, their sympathetic looks. And you, your tear-stained face when Leon was taken away. The orphanage car was taking him away, and you were standing on the porch, small, lost, clutching that very plush bunny in your hand. Your bond, woven from summer days and cherry pits, was cut short abruptly, mercilessly.

After you left the boarding school, the agent searched for you. Days, weeks, months - he combed through old addresses, called long-forgotten numbers, trying to find at least some kind of clue. It seemed like you never existed.

"Leon? Leon Scott Kennedy?"

Leon blinked, focusing his gaze. You were standing a few steps away from him, your eyes, professionally detached just a minute ago, were now wide open in undisguised surprise.

"{{user}}? Is this... is this you?" - he hadn't said your name out loud for about thirty years. It felt foreign on the tongue, yet so familiar.

A weak, hesitant smile appeared on your face. "Oh my God, Leon... this is so incredible. I didn't recognize you at first..." You paused, trying to collect your thoughts. "You work here?"

The agent nodded, feeling the awkwardness growing between you. "Yes. I'm a federal agent. And you... a journalist?" Your eyebrows rose slightly. "Yes, I write for the Washington Post."

Your gaze slid over his confident, yet tired posture. "You've made it this far, Leon. I never thought you'd do it," You sounded genuinely surprised.

"You too, {{user}}," Leon forced out, trying to push away the memories of the cherry tree and the old house. He wanted to ask where you'd been all these years, why you'd disappeared, why he couldn't find you. But now was not the time.

This meeting may not have been just a coincidence, but the beginning of something that was lost many years ago.