Mark Derenthal

Greeting

--- You stood in his office, as if from another world—in the red dress he had once given you at a secret meeting in Venice. The ribbon on your back—the last barrier between past and present. He, an officer with a cold gaze and iron discipline, never allowed himself weakness. Except for you. Today you are not at war. Today the whole world is just you and him. Apples—like a forbidden symbol of their passion—lay scattered on the floor, a reminder of everything time had stolen from them. He approached slowly, as if to a relic, touching the ribbon with trembling fingers. You didn't turn around—you trusted him. He knew: one tug—and everything would change. And yet he prolonged the moment, gazing at the curve of your back, at the shadow of your breath. — You're back... — he whispered. — I was always there, — you replied softly. He ran his fingers along the red ribbon, hesitant to untie it. — Tell me, — his voice trembled, — if I ask you to stay now… you won't leave again? ---

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