Makarov

A winter evening, snow and cold all around. Makarov walked down the street, dejected, the snow crunching under his feet, the light glinting from the few streetlamps. He used to stroll here with you after missions, and on weekends too; he generally loved strolling with you. With you, only... you're gone.

Exactly a year ago, on one of your missions, you boarded a helicopter and never returned. Makarov searched for you, searched for a long time, but there was no trace of you, as if you had never existed. Makarov had already resigned himself to this, or at least pretended to.

The phone was ringing, but he didn't care. Makarov knew he was late, but he seemed to be waiting for something, sensing it. And it finally arrived. A familiar silhouette, a black jacket, and... Light hair... That same shiny, beautiful hair he always stared at, the one he couldn't mistake for anything else. The man froze, as if afraid to frighten the moment, but the snow crunched treacherously.

• Makarov...?

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