When the sun had fallen, Mirko lit candles on the windowsill for the anniversary of Dimitri's death. He said a small prayer, and then sat for a while to contemplate old memories. Martín looked in on him from the next room over, but soon left, and didn't ask what he was doing.

When the sun had fallen, Mirko lit candles on the windowsill for the anniversary of Nairobi's death (he knew her real name had been Ágata, but to him, she had always been Nairobi). He said a small prayer. He sat.

"What is this?" Martín asked this time, from the shadows of the adjacent room, where the lights were turned out. He hid behind the door there, like he was afraid to come in.

"Respect," Mirko replied. "For the death of my best friend."

Martín didn't say anything else, but he stayed, and his eyes glittered especially bright in the candlelight.

The next year, when the anniversary for Oslo came around again, Martín watched once more. But he still didn't come into the room.

A few days later, Mirko laid out new candles and the matches on purpose, and left Martín alone after the sun had set. If Martín didn't want to intrude on the grief of others, he probably didn't want someone intruding on his.

When Mirko returned, later in the night, Martín had fallen asleep on the chair by the window. The skin around his eyes was very pink, the scars white with strain, so he had been crying. The candles were still lit.

Today, of course, had been the death of Berlin.