It was windy. It was always windy at this time of year even though it was summer and some rays of solacing sun escaped from between some wandering clouds on the sky. This day every last two years had been windy and it was windy this day too. It was as if the trees were humming to each other, knowing that another dead man was going to be grieved over again. “They can’t simply let go can they”, mocking or empathetic whispers. No one could tell.

A man in black uniform and a cap with a skull on it walked slowly towards a small iron cross-shaped gravestone. There was a calm yet stone-hard look on his face and the dark eyes behind his spectacles had their numb look focused on the grave he was approaching. His steps were quiet. Wooden sticks were rustling under his boots when he ceased the walking few meters before the gravestone that had a name carved on it. Reinhard Heydrich.

Heinrich Himmler took the cap from his head and placed it on his chest, letting his glance stay on the name. He had known a man called Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich for eleven years. He had loved the man for three quarters of that time, maybe even more. And he had been loved back with fierce, arrogant and unconditional kind of love which was a rarely used term when describing such love between a boss and a subordinate.

The wind brought dust and leaves and took a light grip from the hem of the griever’s jacket. “A griever”, that probably wasn’t the word anyone would’ve chosen when seeing Himmler there, standing in front of the grave. There was no sadness, no grief and no sorrow seen on his blank face, but a man had to be of the most idiotic kind if they didn’t see the deep longing he was suffering.

The grief was long since past. The anger was long since past. The total shock and confusion were long since past. They had been washed away like damp water colours, leaving the paper white and blank with only some shades of their existence. Himmler was that paper now, only the most genuine human feeling left; longing.

Wordless, quiet moment it was. Like it was the day he had gone. This day of June had been quiet for three years. And just like the years before, he didn’t stay long this day either. He finally stretched his hand and placed the cap on his head, turning around and walking away with a faster pace than with that he had come. He fled.

And as always, the wind went away with the griever.