The man stood on the cliff, watching the sun set behind the drifting sand dunes stretching out before him. Behind him was row upon row of solid black tombstones, each name on each stone representing some small slice of his history. A son, a brother, a father, a sister, a daughter, a mother, a friend a role model, a savior, a hero, a memory. He is the last of a great generation, a race that was full of heroes. Every single one of those tombstones stood for a being who had laid down their lives to protect beings who may or may not have deserved the protection. Some had survived the Great War, but not its aftermath. Some had taken their lives to finally forget the images of their friends and loved ones dying before their eyes every night. Others had had their lives taken from them by beings bitter from years of living with regret. He had been one of the few who had survived the war and its aftermath, but that didn't mean he had been completely sane or whole. He had to live with seeing every one of his friends and his family die and living with the knowledge that some of those deaths were his fault.
So now he stood, waiting for his turn to finally be able to seek forgiveness from those lost to this world. Soon, it would be his turn for eternal sleep and finally a break from fighting. He was alone now, but not for long. Soon his limbs would grow tired, his brain would shut down and he would finally walk among his friends and family again. He would once again be young and able to be who he was made to be.
So, he waits, watching another sunset alone, waiting for a new sun to rise, enjoying the quiet comfort from the tombstones, the soft song of hope from behind him. Soon, it would be his turn to seek judgment and he hoped they would welcome him as a friend once more.