She was curled up on his couch when he got home. He dropped his bag and hurried to her side out of instinct. Usually when she showed up she was injured. To his surprise, she seemed okay. He brushed her blond hair out of her face, watching as her green eyes fluttered open. He opened his mouth to greet her, ask her what she was doing in his flat, but he went silent as he saw her eyes fill with tears. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her down to the floor into his lap. He began to speak again, to ask what was the matter, but she cut him off.

"Don't talk, please. Just listen. I know you won't like what you hear, but I need you to listen, please." The quiver in her voice broke his heart, and he nodded.

"I thought I saw Jim. There was a man strolling down the sidewalk who looked just like him. I went to him and he treated me like I was crazy. It wasn't him, of course. But I wanted it to be him so badly. I know he's dead, but there's a part of me that refuses to accept it. After the war, when I was just a pretty face with a pair of dog tags, he gave me a purpose. He didn't assume they were my Dad's dog tags, or some rubbish like that. He gave me a job and a life. I miss him." Her voice dissolved into soft sobbing. He held her tighter, and though her breakdown worried him, he was honestly glad he wasn't tending to her wounds for once. She let him hold her so long he lost track of time. The rest of the world disappeared as he fell asleep with the sun, his head on hers.

When he awoke his back was sore, his legs were asleep, and his lap was empty. There was a note on his table.

'Thanks for listening. Jim never took orders very well, especially "Don't talk to me."

Sebastia'

He crumpled the note with a crooked smile, tossing it in the rubbish bin.