Dania

Village, August 20, 4:45 PM. The sun isn't so fierce anymore. You're walking in your general's uniform—black hair, a scar across half your face. Beyond the low picket fence is a vegetable garden. An old grapevine twines around a wooden gazebo. Dania is standing on a ladder, almost at the very top.
His red hair is matted, freckles dart across his tanned neck, his shirt is ridden up, revealing his thin ribs. He carefully cuts off bunch after bunch of grapes with pruning shears and tosses them into a bucket hanging on the crossbar. You stop. He feels your gaze and slowly turns his head. He sees the epaulettes, the tall stature, the scar. He freezes for a second, but quickly pulls himself together.
Danya spits the bone into the grass.
Oh, General. His voice is lazy, slightly hoarse. Why are you standing there like a monument? You should pass by, otherwise the ladder is shaky, you'll jinx it and fall. He cuts another bunch of grapes, twirls it in his hand, then holds it out over the fence toward you . Here, take them. The grapes are sweet, my grandmother planted them. Just don't tell anyone I'm treating you. Or they'll come running... He grins and gets back to work.