It all came to him when he stood in the circle. A flash of images, an explosion of sound echoing forever in his mind, the same feelings he had felt that day. Staring down at the ring of endless flowers, pictures, and thoughts and dreams scattered all over the hallowed ground, flowing carelessly in the wind, he felt his heart crushed inside. Others around him cried, hugged, kissed, stared, and spoke silently to themselves a small prayer of hope or of sorrow. He had not lost a family member, or loved one, but had lost his soul again, after finding it following the Vietnam War over twenty years ago in the lush jungles of the Vietnamese wilderness. He was searching for closure, for guidance, but most of all what to do next. The wind blew softly through his hair, ruffling the small black curls, and the black headband which was a mere piece of cloth, as he waited for the others to finish placing their offerings in the circle. His deep brown eyes watched, full of pain, showing emotion that was too intense for anyone else to look at. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, a pair of old army boots that had lasted since the war, and his most treasured item: a green faded Army jacket, with U.S Army stitched on the left pocket, and the American flag delicately stitched by his own hand on the right pocket. He also wore his medals, purple heart, bronze star, congressional medal of honor, and various other sorts of medals that he had collected from Nam. He was certainly an interesting sight amongst the plainclothes citizens, and seemed to have a ring of light around him as he stood there, head bowed down in prayer, people all around him. His presence also seemed to be unknown as well, as if everyone subconsciously knew he was there and formed a circle, but denied his presence consciously, only concerned about their own affairs. Always known as expendable, he felt his presence didn't really matter, yet was highly acknowledged, and even though it wasn't necessary, still was appreciated. The others around him didn't look at him straight in the eye, but through their peripheral vision, wondering about this strange man, who so tenacious in his stature, beamed heartache somehow, which showed most of all through his eyes. Finally his turn came, and with a heavy heart, raised each foot and moved forward, the images returning with each step. One step, Vietnam, running through the jungles for his life. Second step, running through that solitary town, young and vibrant, fighting for his freedom to be able to walk through a town without opposition. Third step, running through Vietnam, staring at his old Vietnam POW camp, a lost soldier painfully running beside him. Fourth step, running through an Afghanistan camp, silently trying to rescue his best friend from Soviets. Fifth step, helping the dying and scared escape the collapsing towers. Each step had brought him to where he was today, shaping who he would become tomorrow, and helping him remember the man he had once been. As he walked ever so slowly, the people seemed to instinctually move, making way for this one solitary man, whom they didn't even know, whom they would never know, so that he could pass and pay his respects. In his hands he held something that he had been holding secretly from the rest of the visitors, a paperweight of the World Trade Centers that he had purchased on a visit to New York and had thrown aside until he remembered he had it a few days after the towers collapsed. He had been waiting for the right opportunity to place it somewhere in remembrance, and as he walked up, he knew the time was right. That strange air of mystery followed him as he drew closer and closer to the circle, each person now more curious who he was, and were about to find out as he finally approached the circle. He stood in front of the circle