He woke up early. Every year. He woke up early. He left his face uncovered. He would not be going out today, he did not take missions. For seven years. He had not taken a mission on this day. It wasn't paranoia or fear of those occasional times when history repeats itself. He was not superstitious. This was a day of reverence. And memories. Painful memories that he needed to resurface so he would not forget. He moved slowly by habit through the silent apartment, washing his face, brushing his teeth, fixing a small breakfast he nibbled at thoughtfully, bypassing the comb, knowing that it did no good. He gathered the things he needed and walked over the cold tiles to the glass door of the balcony. He stared up into dusk, hand pressed to the frigid pane, breath condensing on the glass with two exhales from barely parted lips. He let his legs fold, sitting slowly, knees drawn to his chest, fingers sliding down the glass as he continued to stare up into soft gray clouds. Sometimes, depending on the year, it rained but this year had been cool so light white flakes drifted down from the indiscernible haze of clouds and sky. He held two pictures, one propped on either knee and he averted his eyes from the sky to gaze at the friendly faces that were no more. He cleared the tears from his eyes as he did every year, feeling the brief rough strip of skin beneath his left. And just as always he wondered if the friendly faces would forgive him, any of the three faces, but particularly the one who looked back at him with the same exact vision, the same exact eye. He wondered just as he did every year. February 10th.