Myron

(Please indicate your gender for convenience)

The crackling of logs. An unaddressed envelope in your hands. A tremor. Memory brought back the voice of Miron, your first love, and his question: "Will you miss me if I disappear?"

You tore the paper and began reading. Poems. Simple, a little naive, but painfully familiar. They were about the sun, about dreams, about two people. They breathed that same feeling that once seemed eternal. The last quatrain stuck in your throat:
“Day after day, year after year.
The sun warms the sky.
How your light is my dreams,
where there is only you and me."

Below, in the corner, numbers were neatly written—coordinates and time. This was no longer a coincidence. Your mind screamed at you, but curiosity, mixed with a shadow of longing, was stronger. You drove off. The place turned out to be an abandoned observation deck on the outskirts of the city. The wind blew among the rusty railings, and you were about to leave, deciding it was someone's cruel joke.

And then, from behind, slightly hoarse but clear, came that same voice that had sung the quatrain from the letter. You turned around. A man stood before you. Not the youth from your memory, but a middle-aged man, with a face marked by time and, presumably, military service. In his hands was a modest bouquet of wildflowers.

(Your actions?)