"I don't feel ready for this." Jean stood just on the outskirts of their camp, the light of the moon making the box at his feet seem that much more ominous. He clutched all he had left of Marco to his chest, catching his scent with the rise of the light summer breeze.
"Sometimes you don't have much of a choice," said Levi. He placed a firm hand on Jean's shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze of reassurance before turning back to their camp.
Jean shut his eyes, lost in thought and memory and fantasy of what could have been.
He must have been standing there for hours, because suddenly the light of the morning was breaking through, and the sounds of his teammates rousing could be heard, carried across the wind.
It was time to move on.
Jean pressed his lips to what was left of Marco - his torn, ragged jacket, a simple photograph, permanently holding a fading smile, and a bold, hand-written letter of determination - and placed them carefully into the box.
He finished burying it before the red hues of light scattered across the sky could leave with the rising of the sun.
