Flowers rested against engraved stone. It was getting cold—they'd start to wilt soon. A few days after the funeral, a government worker knocked on the door of that tiny apartment and gave the woman who answered a sealed envelope with a check inside. She took it and closed the door after a brief word of thanks. Then, she went back into the apartment, to where a blind, older woman sat at a small table, and told her that the first payment from the death gratuity had arrived. When the caretaker asked if she ought to open the envelope and read out the amount, the blind woman shook her head. She leaned one elbow on the table, pressing her hand tightly over her mouth as tears silently rolled down her cheeks.

He was standing in front of that small plot of land, staring down at the framed portrait leaning against the headstone. It sat just below that name. Two dates—birth and death. Here lies a soldier, a son, a friend, and a hero. He gazed at the face he knew all too well—supposedly, it was the face of the one resting in the ground in front of him. The fact that this was the truth he was being forced to accept angered him.

Or maybe that anger was for something else. He'd had only one chance. Hold that thought.

I held onto it, Giacomo. Why didn't you just come back? Why couldn't you have just let me make things right? All he could think about was how Giacomo had looked at him in front of that police station—those accusatory eyes. They bore into him from beyond the grave. He wished they'd stop looking at him. He wished they'd let him rest.

But then came that voice—that other voice he hadn't heard for so long. Not since he was 12, standing on the side of that road and looking down at that squirrel. He felt comfortable hearing it. It was like being reunited with an old childhood friend.

There's still time, it told him, to make things right.

Stefano turned around. There was no one around him. He already knew that.

Go on. You know what to do. Just don't be careless this time.

He didn't like it when women cried. Such beautiful creatures, and tears only served to stain—tarnish. But he did nothing, keeping his head gently bowed as the two of them absorbed the news.

There, there, Emily, he wanted to say. Don't cry.

But he did nothing. His eyes were lowered to the newspaper on the coffee table. The news had reached them by mouth, but it was also here in print. Black headlines read WOMAN FOUND STABBED IN HER APARTMENT. Such ugly words. Stab—that word rolled off the tongue heavy and clotted like dry paint.

He heard her say something through her tears, asking why someone would do such a thing. But her words sounded funny—muddled, like he was listening underwater, or as if he didn't quite exist where she did.

Why would someone do such a thing?

Do what again?

Stefano blinked. Oh, yes. The headline. A young woman had been found in her apartment with fatal stab wounds. Poor Lucia. She had been so beautiful.

He sighed, waiting for Emily's tears to mellow out. Stefano had come to tell his dear friend something, and it was unfortunate timing that this bit of news had caught up to them in this moment. He didn't have long to stay. Another contract had been signed. He was flying out tomorrow and leaving all this behind.

His sigh must have sounded melancholy, because then Emily spoke up. "I'm so sorry, Stefano. I don't know how you must feel. You two were friends for a long time, weren't you?"

"Yes. Long before he joined the army," Stefano replied quietly. Emily didn't catch the strangeness of his words over the sound of her own sniffling. "Emily, dear, I… I don't want to undermine what's happened, but I've something to tell you. There's not much time left."

"What is it?"

"I'm leaving," he said. "Tomorrow. Salerno, Italy—all of it. I'm heading over to Afghanistan to do a wartime series." He paused. "I won't be able to make it to Lucia's funeral, but do pass my respects forward to her, won't you?"

"Oh, but…" Emily took a few seconds to digest the news. "That's so… that's so dangerous."

"I think," Stefano said slowly, "I've found my calling."

"Is this…?" Emily's voice dipped down into a whisper. She leaned forward, continuing, "I'm so sorry—please don't get upset. But is this about Giacomo?"

"This is for Giacomo," Stefano corrected gently. "You know, once he told me that I didn't know what it was like. And he was right, absolutely right. I don't know what it's like. Nobody at home does. I can't stand it. They called him brave, but I want them to know exactly why he was brave. After all he's done, it's the least I can do for him."

"Wow, that's so… beautiful. You really are a wonderful man."

He let his appreciation show through the faintest flicker of a smile, his eyes returning down to the headline on the coffee table.

"Just be careful."

"I am to photograph the toils of soldiers, Emily. I will not forsake capturing the vital essence of those scenes for a bit of safety."

Emily sighed, wiping the last traces of her tears from her cheeks. "Sometimes, Stefano, you worry me."

His eyes came back up. "There's really no need to be."

The next day, while the police were still investigating the murder of the young woman, Stefano was several thousand miles up in the air—cruising over the ocean with the plane's nose pointed in the direction of the Middle East. He'd been given a manual with very clear instructions on what to do once the plane touched down and how to get to the military base. But that manual had been tucked aside for now, and Stefano's attention was focused on the newspaper article that was giving the update on Lucia's murder investigation.

Finding a lead was difficult. According to the article, the murder weapon was missing and there was no trace of the killer's fingerprints anywhere in the apartment. Ah, speaking of which…

Stefano folded the newspaper in half and set it aside. He picked up a catalog he'd brought along and began perusing it. Inside was an array of Fratelli Orsini gloves—handmade and designer. Perfect for his style. He'd recently grown a fondness for the look of gloves on him.

When the plane touched down, and Stefano stepped out from the airport, the first thing he noticed was the heat. It was mid-March, so the air was only set to get hotter from here. Just perfect, he thought.

An armored truck had come to pick him up, which surprised him. He had seen a few armored cars back in the days when he'd worked for the president, but those had always held an elegant design to them. Not these—they were bulky and massive, almost like tanks. As Stefano climbed into the passenger side, he asked the driver, "Are we expecting a bit of, ah, trouble on the way?"

"Don't you worry, sir." The driver was American. He glanced over at Stefano, his eyes hidden by a pair of blue-tinted aviators. "Just a precaution." He pressed down on the pedal. Stefano could feel the rumbling of the engine ripple through the entire vehicle like the growl of an aggravated beast. "Where're ya from, man?"

"Salerno."

"Is that like in…?"

"Italy."

"Ah. Cool, cool." The driver made a wide turn onto the road. "So you're a photographer, huh? What made you want to come out here? Could'a stayed at home and photographed some pretty Italian girls."

Ugh, what an entirely unsophisticated companion Stefano had found himself saddled with. But Stefano kept his disdain well disguised. "Thought I'd get a change of scenery," he replied casually. "Leave the comfy, air-conditioned rooms behind for a little bit of excitement, you know?"

"I hear ya, man," the driver replied. The car hit a bump in a road, lightly jostling the men inside. "Hear ya loud and clear. But just a word of warning—I'm sure you already know this, but this ain't going to be your typical shoot. Nothing's posed. Nothing's going to wait for you to wrap up. And if worse comes to worst, the other side isn't going to care whether you're a soldier or photographer. Keep in mind, Valentini—this is the real deal."

"I'm well aware," Stefano replied. "I didn't expect a job with a contract that has three pages dedicated to liabilities and lawsuit waivers to be very cushy."

"I'm just giving you a heads-up. People tend to pass over the fine print, which is why the most important things get put in there."

"Well rest assured, I skimmed over enough of it to get the gist of what I'm exposing myself to—death, injury, being held captive. Oh, and my favorite: trauma. All in all, quite the cheery list."

"And one last thing," the driver said. "I'm sure you saw it—it was one of the most important clauses. The soldiers aren't there to protect you. They've got more than enough on their hands. You're, well, pretty much on your own once you're out there. A spectator to it all."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver glance at him before turning back to the road ahead.

"Well, you've certainly got the pep. I guess that's better than being bogged down by nerves."

They'd left the airport and city behind, swapping paved roads for a bumpy dirt one that stretched out through the arid, barren land like a piece of carelessly-laid string. Stefano watched the scenery as it passed by his passenger window, though it was nothing to write home about. Dirt, dirt, and more dirt… sometimes shrubs that looked about as lush as the torched sand around them.

After about 20 more minutes—filled with the rumbling of the truck's engine and the clacking of pebbles being thrown up against the vehicle's underbelly—Stefano finally spotted something in the wavering horizon. At first, it looked like nothing more than a gray stripe in the distance. Then, as they neared, the squat, rectangular shapes of the individual buildings began to take form. Stefano continued to observe it as they drove closer. As far as visual appeal went, the base was ranked at the very bottom of the scale. Though, he figured, there were some things that unfortunately needed to follow the function-over-form principle.

A tall fence ran around the perimeter of the base, topped off with barbed wire. Two watchtowers flanked the entrance to the base. "We've got snipers up there," the driver told Stefano as they rolled slowly up to the barrier. "And you can bet they saw us coming from miles away… literally."

A pair of soldiers came out as the truck stopped right in front of the barrier. One came up to the window to talk to the driver while the other walked around to the back inspect the truck's belly. When everything was authenticated, both soldiers stepped to the side. One waved and seconds later, the concrete barrier sank into the ground to let the truck through.

"Welcome to Day One, Valentini," the driver said as he turned the car towards a plot of land where other vehicles were parked. "First on your agenda once I cut this engine should be to let the base commander know you're here. Commander Caivano—should be in his office in Building A3. That one." He pointed through the windshield. Stefano could make out a small black 'A3' on the corner of the building. Well, at least these lackluster structures were labeled—otherwise, he'd never be able to tell one from the next.

Stefano stepped down from the truck. The gravelly ground underneath his shoes crunched as he made his way over to Building A3. From a short distance away, he spied two short flagpoles. One bore the blue NATO flag, while from the other the flag of Italy waved. They were there to signify the identity of the base as one run primarily by the Italian army, though they were shortened as to not be seen above the walls of the base.

Stefano entered the building, which was about as small as it looked from the outside. Inside were a few rooms, one of which was the base commander's office. Commander Caivano was a middle-aged man, incredibly built, and had a face that looked as though it had been crafted in a blacksmith's forge. From behind his desk, he rose as Stefano came in. "Heard you'd just arrived," the Caivano greeted. He stuck out a hand, and Stefano took it. His grip was just as steely as his gaze. "Giosuè Caivano, sir."

"Stefano Valentini." He kept the cordial smile up as Caivano dropped his vice-like grip. "It's an honor, Comandante."

"Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences, Mr. Valentini. I knew Capitano Damiani. He was a good man, and a dedicated soldier."

"I never expected him to be anything less."

Caivano gave a firm nod, a signal that the brief formalities were over. "You'll find a part of the barracks has already been reserved for you, Mr. Valentini. You'll be briefed on the scope of your work. I think it's best if you get started as soon as practical. Should you encounter any problems, do not hesitate to reach out to me or Alescio, my second-in-command." Stefano had just taken his first step to turn when Caivano added, "Oh, and Mr. Valentini." Stefano stopped. "Though I do not wish to impede your work, I must firmly remind you to remain in the sidelines at all times. Do not get in the way of my men."

"Understood, Comandante."

The cameraman in the sidelines—for the next few weeks, that was all Stefano was at that military base. Every time he placed his eye at the viewfinder, he tried seeing through Giacomo's eyes. This had been his friend's everyday, just as university had been Stefano's. It was uncomfortable, grueling. And while the heat made Stefano want to shed his own skin, he felt that there was something crucial missing. There was a hole in this picture he was trying to build up, and the way it gnawed at him drove him mad.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he found Caivano and voiced his dissatisfaction. The base commander listened patiently, but his brow furrowed at Stefano's words.

"Mr. Valentini," he said slowly, each word coming out as solid as stone. "Do correct me if I've interpreted your words wrong, but are you saying you no longer wish to remain at the base?"

"With all due respect, Comandante, I am doing a wartime series. There is much more to that than what is confined within this chain-link fence."

"I think, Mr. Valentini, I understand what it is that drives you. You want to put Damiani's life into pictures to commemorate him. Well this…" Caivano motioned around them. "Was his everyday. He spent a large amount of his service time stationed in bases such as this one."

While that may be true, Stefano thought, that isn't what I'm after. I've taken what I can here—to photograph more would be a blatant waste of film. Besides, the Giacomo I saw on those university grounds wasn't born from staying within base walls doing drills. He was born out there, where danger is the thickest. That's what I'm after, Caivano, and don't you dare get in my way.

"I understand, Comandante. However, I'm afraid that won't deter me from the request I just made."

Caivano studied Stefano with those metallic eyes. "The combat hot zones are no place for one such as you, Mr. Valentini. Understand that I cannot in my right mind send a civilian out there."

Stefano returned the gaze just as firmly. "It is within the scope of my work," he said. "As denoted in my contract—the one, you'll find, that contains my signature on each and every page."

The steel weakened, and Stefano knew he had won. "If that's what you truly want, then fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Comandante. I'm glad we had this talk." Stefano returned to the barracks, leaving Caivano to make phone calls and pull strings. The next day, Stefano was told that he was heading up north. Heavy combat was occurring in a small village that had been evacuated early that morning. A unit was being sent up to provide support for the American soldiers that were already there, and Caivano had reserved a spot for Stefano to go with them.

As Stefano was getting into the armored truck, Caivano stopped him for one last time. "I'm reminding you, while I still have the chance," the commander said in a dire voice. "Do not get in the way. Do not do anything foolish. Mr. Valentini, no photograph is worth your life. You are in charge of your own safety. The men out there will do what they can, but they will not jeopardize their lives or those of their squad members for yours." He stepped back to let Stefano get into the truck. "May God protect you."

As the truck drove them away from the base, Stefano felt his heart cracking against his ribcage as he struggled to fathom what he was headed towards. Whatever it was, he wanted to capture every last bit of it with his camera.

And that was exactly what he did when the truck stopped at the outskirts of the village and the soldiers came pouring out. The noises, the sights. The vibrations that shot through the air and hit him like punches. The gunfire. The shouts. The men dragging their injured brethren to safety. The thrill. The terror.

So this was what it was like, Giacomo.

Several of the buildings had already been reduced to chunks of rubble and stray walls from the fight. The opposition couldn't even be seen from where Stefano was. Faceless enemies lobbed metal and fire at them. But while Stefano couldn't see them, he saw the soldiers around them. And as he saw them, his lens did too.

He captured the way they fought. The way they bled. Their fear. Their bravery. The pictures hadn't been developed, and yet Stefano already knew that these were the best pieces he had ever taken.

And then, as Stefano placed his face behind the camera, something odd happened. Not just odd—downright strange. Through the viewfinder, he was focusing on a soldier ducking behind the cover of a concrete wall to reload his gun. Stefano was standing quite far from the solider, so that he was also able to contain the half-obliterated building behind him in the composition. Stefano paused, making sure the focus was steady.

Then, before he could push down and take the photo, he saw the darkened blur of someone passing directly in front of the camera. A stab of irritation pulsed through him, but he was too dedicated to taking the shot to move his face from the camera. Stefano could feel that whoever had passed in front was now standing next to him.

And then they spoke. "Stefano," they said. "Why are you here?" That voice…

No…

That voice!

Quickly, Stefano tore his face away from the camera and whipped his head to the side. No one was standing next to him. Straightening up, Stefano felt the rejuvenated pounding in his chest as he looked around. There wasn't anyone standing close by.

The grip on his camera was tight. There was… there was just no way. It had simply been a trick—his mind warping some other noise he'd heard. And the stress of everything he'd just witnessed had added to that hallucination.

That was it. Yes.

Shortly after, the fire died down. The enemy had either fallen back or sustained too many casualties to keep fighting. There was a calm moment as the soldiers who were still able quickly set up a stronger perimeter around the village and trucks drove off with the wounded. With the last truck, Stefano sent back his latest roll of film. He wanted his greatest works back within the safety of the base, waiting for when he returned to them.

An American lieutenant came to check up on him. "You must be out of your damn mind. Couldn't believe my ears when they told me a photographer was joining us," he said. "How are you doing? Don't seem too banged up."

How was he? Stefano had never felt more alive—more like an artist with the most vibrant, visceral canvas before him. "I'm fine," he replied. "What happens next?"

"Well," the lieutenant replied. "A report's being sent back to command—they'll figure out our next move. Meanwhile, we make sure this area is secure."

No, no, none of this boring, rubbish admin nonsense. When do I get more? "I see."

For the last two weeks of his contracted term, Stefano never saw any more activity that could match that day. He had returned to the mundane things—the safer ones. And he came to learn that there was nothing interesting about 'safe.'

The term ended, and Stefano returned home to Italy. He had the photographs developed. Due to the sensitive nature of his pieces, and to prevent any possible leakages of military secrets, he had to obtain approval from the Italian government to publicize his photos. Like his days as the president's photographer, very few were chosen. But, to his minimal satisfaction, nearly all of the ones Stefano had taken in that village were approved. The reception was astounding.

Stefano felt as though he had been waiting for this all his life.

They were seen, and they were applauded—the ones that the public was especially moved by. A soldier pressing down on another's bullet wound to stem the bleeding. An American soldier offering a water canteen to an Italian soldier. The reach was international, appearing in articles that spanned several languages. The publicists that desired to incorporate his works requested for his presence and he would come, dressed to impress in a crisp suit. In the place of a tie, he grew a penchant for wearing a scarf instead. Ties were too generic, too… not him. And those Fratelli Orsini's looked good on him.

He couldn't get enough—that never-ending drive to create had him visiting war zones several times. Each time he would return completely reawakened and ready for that recognition he so deserved. And when he got it, oh, was the rush better than any narcotic. Stefano had long forgotten what had pulled him out to Afghanistan in the first place. All he could think about was the art to be made.

As good as it was, it was never enough. Ever since those taken in the village had reached the public eye, his pieces never again climbed to that height. In fact, the recognition dwindled—alarmingly so. The artistic world was never kind to the mediocre, and there was no such thing as second place in it. But Stefano was none of those things. He was great! Why couldn't everyone see that? The maddening frustration compelled him to push safety further and further to the side in order to get that one masterpiece that would return him back into the light—his rightful place.

It had only been a matter of time before Stefano found himself on the receiving end of a bullet. Luckily, the injury was minor, but it placed him out of commission for a few months. He spent his recovery time in the United States, where he'd purchased a nice bit of land in Krimson City. And on that plot, Stefano had a spacey, custom-designed home built. His own little oasis.

Then, in 2004, Stefano could ignore the itch no longer. He flew back to Afghanistan. By this time, several military bases were already familiar with him. Activity had picked up considerably by then. Military tension was thick enough to cut through.

Stefano remembered that day clearly—that glorious day. Oh, explosions ripped. The ground shook like something enormous was trying to claw its way out from beneath. He had been urged again and again not to go where the battle raged. It was too risky, they told him. Best to play it safe—there it was again, that despicable word. No, leave safety to the dullards. The philistines. He needed this.

The battle being fought was a losing one. Men were dying at too quick a rate, and the order to pull back was relayed before more joined them. But the severity, the danger, only served to make his pieces that much more incredible. Fall back? No. This was where that masterpiece would finally be created.

He remembered the exact words the soldier shouted to him. He was telling Stefano to move. Fall back. Run, before it was too late. He heard the distant whistle, and knew that it was only seconds before the explosion would occur. But there was still time.

Still time for another photograph. The one.

And so he'd lifted the camera to his face. He held the soldier within the confines of the viewfinder. The soldier had turned away to look back, but when he turned back to Stefano, he—.

What?

No.

Stefano remembered every single detail from that day. It was impressed in his mind like a permanent image in silver halide. He knew what had happened and what hadn't.

But what he saw now…

The Exploding Soldier had been his greatest work. It was the genesis of what he was now—something greater than he had ever been. He never knew the man who had given his life for that piece. All Stefano knew was that it had been an American soldier.

But what Stefano saw in the viewfinder then was no American. It was a face he hadn't seen in a long time. One he thought he had lost.

It wasn't possible. How could it be?

He stared at Stefano through the viewfinder, his piercing gaze desperate and concerned. Terrified. "Stefano, put the camera down!" he shouted. That voice. It was his voice. "Put the camera down before it's too late!"

Seconds. He had seconds. Somehow, Stefano found himself trapped in the past, present, and future. He knew what would happen. He was in that very moment, but he knew everything that would happen from then on. Put the camera down?

Why?

But he knew what would happen. No, Giacomo. No. You're not supposed to be the Exploding Soldier.

Giacomo.

No!

The seconds were up. Time's passed. His actions played out like a recording. There was the roar of an explosion. He saw Giacomo turned to look. He pressed down on the shutter release button.

The Exploding Soldier.

But it didn't end there. He felt the heat first. And then the shrapnel came. It hit his camera. He felt it disintegrate in his hands. And then the most terrible, terrible pain erupted in his right eye. It was awful. It spread throughout his body until pain was all he could feel.

Suddenly, Stefano jolted awake. His agonized cry was strangled and died in his throat. A hand, claw-like, came up and gripped the right side of his face. The phantom pain pulsed through his right eye. Too real. Too real.

Where was he? What was happening to him? It was dark. He wasn't on the battlefield anymore. He was lying down—on something soft. A bed. And he wasn't alone. Something shifted next to him. He looked.

Loose chestnut curls splayed over the pillow, and bare shoulders peeked out from underneath them. That smell—her perfume. It was everywhere. All over the sheets, all over him.

Romana? Is that you? Am I back in Salerno?

… Lucia?

And then Stefano remembered. No… no. That was all past. Behind him. Discarded like an irrelevant album. And good riddance, too.

But part of his mind was still locked in turmoil. His abrupt awakening had left him in a troubled state of delirium. He had to make sure of one thing—that thing.

Flinging the covers back, he touched his feet to the floor. He tried to stand, but quickly ducked his head down with a soft grunt. That side of his face, his eye, still tingled with the echoes of that shrapnel. He'd been taken to the field hospital within an hour of the explosion, and the surgeons had done what they could. They told him the tissue was damaged beyond repair. He would never see out of that eye again.

It didn't matter. Stefano had lost that part of him long before that.

Lifting his head, he rose. He found his briefs on the floor by the balcony. Then, he went to his camera bag and unclasped a small pocket. Inside was a folded, frayed paper. It was an article. His greatest piece's first exposure to the limelight. Stefano walked into the kitchen and flicked the lights on. He sat at a chair and unfolded the article. The large headlines read: MEANING OF LIFE THROUGH A WAR PHOTOGRAPHER'S LENS.

Ha. No doubt the author had been quite proud of that.

And then, above those words, there it was. There it was.

But tonight, Stefano didn't look upon it with the fondness he usually had. His surviving eye narrowed and he brought the photograph closer. He scrutinized the blurred form of the soldier, looking for any sort of telling detail. Trying to discern the flag patch on his arm was hopeless. And the soldier—in this picture, he had lost all semblance of the man he was before this. Now, the only thing he'd become was a visage of death.

Just like Giacomo.

No, not like Giacomo!

Stefano parted his lips and drew in a sharp breath. Stop it! Stop it! Whoever you are, trying to show me things that are best left forgotten—stop it! But he couldn't stop thinking about it, those words the soldier had shouted at him through the camera before he'd been killed.

"Put down the camera, Giacomo?" Stefano uttered softly into the night air. "Weren't you the one who said it—keep snapping those pictures?" He saw those eyes again. Boring into him. Accusatory. Hurt. I made you a promise, Giacomo. I'm still keeping it, aren't I? Don't look at me like that. DON'T! You betrayed me first!

"Darling?" Stefano flinched. Quickly, he folded the article and tossed it onto the table. Leaning back in his chair, he saw her standing in the doorway. Ah, his sweet muse.

She'd put on a bathrobe, but left the sash undone. With her arms crossed over her stomach, Celestina continued, "Is everything alright?"

He stared at her, filling his sight with her image. As he did, the eyes disappeared. He was liberated. Slowly, Stefano stood. He walked over to her. Celestina watched silently as he approached.

He stopped when they were just inches apart. Pulling her arms from her stomach, he snaked his hands through the open seam in her bathrobe and wrapped them around her waist.

"Everything," he told her, "is as it should be."