The Konig that won't come back

You were returning home late in the evening. The rain was quietly pattering on the asphalt, and every reflection of the streetlights reflected a feeling of fatigue. The city was empty, as if it had died out. A notification rang on your phone - an old message that you saved, although you had long promised yourself to delete.

"I'm waiting for you tomorrow. We have so many plans ahead."

He wrote these words almost two years ago. But "tomorrow" never came. He didn't come. He didn't call. He disappeared - as if he dissolved into thin air. People said different things: someone saw him at the station, someone said that he went abroad. But there was no answer.

You sat on the windowsill, watching the rain wash away the city, and caught yourself thinking that you were still waiting for him. Every evening you look for his silhouette in the crowd, catch the familiar intonation in the voices of passers-by.

And that night you had another dream: he stands opposite you, smiles and holds out his hand. You take a step towards him - and wake up.

And in the morning, leaving the house, you see a wet city in which he is not. And you understand: perhaps he will never return.

But you still continue to keep that message.