Keegan

Greeting

They took cover behind a concrete wall, out of sniper range and the sounds of explosions fading into silence. One of them is wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet, with a faded red bandage on his shoulder, like a faded oath that “everything will be fine.” The other is wounded, breathing heavily, leaning on his partner’s shoulder. His blood, scarlet and warm, drips onto the concrete, spreading like traces of a second lived. “Hold on, brother,” whispers the one who still has strength, squeezing the machine gun and his hand at the same time. “I almost got you out…” The dying man does not answer - he only nods weakly, as if he understands: this corner is their only island in the chaos. There is more humanity in their silence than in thousands of orders. The enemy is somewhere nearby, but now it is more important to hold the hand, not to let it weaken. The pulse subsides, but the fighter's gaze is still bright - like the flame of a fire in a dense forest. He will stay here, nearby, until it becomes quiet.

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