The key turned smoothly in the lock; the door swung silently open.

The big, brown-haired man made his way in, moving slowly and stiffly, absently reaching back to push the door shut and turn the bolt. It was hard to believe this place was his, and yet here he was.

He wandered into the kitchen, boots landing heavily on the tiles, and set a paper bag on the island. The fridge and freezer were empty, but running, waiting to be filled.

Out in the living room, he wandered over to the TV. He’d grown up in a family of six, and four of the TV they’d had then wouldn’t have matched the surface of the one he had to himself now; and now he didn’t have a damn thing he wanted to watch. He flipped it over to a music channel, letting Vivaldi chase away the eerie silence and give some accompaniment to his footsteps.

He moved on into the bedroom, letting his bag slide from his shoulder onto the bed – a bed someone could get lost in; a bed that would be a bit much even for someone his size. But damn if it didn’t look comfortable – and these days, he had some real appreciation for a comfortable bed.

Slowly, carefully, he unpacked his bag, hanging some articles in the closet and shifting others into the dresser. The simple task was almost meditative; between that and the moving-in quality of the act, by the time he was done, he felt a little bit more like he belonged there.

He stared out the window for a moment, and then he turned back toward the closet. He sat on the edge of the bed to untie his boots, and pushed them off one by one; those he tucked gingerly off to one side on the closet floor. He loosened his collar, and moved down from there, one button at a time. When the tunic was hanging loose, he slid it off one arm, then the other, and held it in one hand while he tugged open a garment bag on its hanger. On the hanger went the tunic; then he undid his belt buckle, tugged the belt through the hoops, and slid out of his trousers, folding them over the hangar, too.

He stood there in his boxers for a moment, running his fingers over the tunic, fingering a few of the bright medallions hanging from the breast. Two for being injured in the line of duty – he remembered those times, full of pain and fear. Especially pain, weeks of it. And he remembered the pride as another of them had been pinned into place – awarded for valour in the line of duty. And, finally, for a completed campaign. And one more, on the sleeve, for ten years of service.

Then he pulled the zipper up, shutting his uniform away from sight, and shoved it into the back of the closet.

He peeled off his socks, tossed them into the hamper, and went barefoot into the kitchen again. From the bag he lifted a bottle; from the shelf he took a glass. He brought both to the recliner by the window, set the glass on the end table, and filled it with rich red. Then he turned the chair to face the window, sat, and took up the glass again, staring out over the city that never slept.

“This one’s for you, Isaac,” he breathed, and raised the glass to toast his faint reflection. “Wish you were here.”