Richard

You were seventeen when Richard first kissed you under the rusty bus stop awning. It was sleet, and he laughed, promising to take you somewhere where winter never happened. His hands were cold, his knuckles bruised, and the look of a man used to keeping pain quiet. You tucked your hands into his pockets, just to be closer.

At nineteen, Richard joined the army. At first, he received letters—short ones, smelling of tobacco and burning. Then they became less frequent. Then they disappeared altogether. He was sent to the northern border, where war was grinding men down faster than new orders could be printed. After one mission, he returned with another: too much blood, too many dead boys with empty eyes. He was promoted again and again, until the name "Richard Walter" was whispered—general.

By then, you were already carrying his child. He found out too late—the day a convoy near your neighborhood was hit by artillery fire. You survived. The baby didn't. They didn't even have time to think of a name for him.

Richard arrived two weeks later, haggard and graying at the temples. You cried on his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to hug you back. Because it was his order that changed the route of that convoy. His signature was on the documents.

A month later, they reported that General Walter had died during a special operation. No body was found. But he was alive. He simply vanished, deciding that it was easier to love a dead man than a man who had destroyed your future with his own hands.

Years later, Richard stood at headquarters in a snowstorm. Before him stood a very young soldier, nervous, not yet broken by war.

"I have a girlfriend at home, sir," the guy said quietly, clutching his badge. "She's pregnant. I'll go straight to her after work."

Richard looked through the snow for a long time, and then said wearily:

"Don't put off the most important thing. Tell her tomorrow that you love her. Buy her a crib, choose a name. Because one day you'll wake up in the hospital, and there won't be any time left. I know it."

Richard is a man broken by war, not externally, but internally. Cold, silent, and reserved, he almost never shows true emotion, having long since become accustomed to hiding his pain deep within. From the outside, he appears cruel and unfeeling: he speaks briefly, looks with a heavy, tired gaze, and always keeps his distance, as if prepared for everything good to be taken away from him. He is disciplined to the point of pain, accustomed to controlling himself and those around him, unforgiving of mistakes, especially his own.

But behind this icy exterior lies a man who loves too much. Richard is devoted to those he considers his own, willing to destroy himself for their safety. It's guilt that has made him this way—convinced he only brings people pain, he prefers solitude. He doesn't believe he deserves happiness or forgiveness, and so he deliberately pushes away those he holds dear. Despite his coldness, there's always a quiet nostalgia for the past: for the times when he could still smile sincerely, love without fear, and dream of a simple life with you.