It was cold. Ice seeped into his bones, making his knees ache as he knelt. The snow melted beneath him, and cold liquid soaked through his jeans, chilling his skin.

He shouldn’t be here, really. He’d just been let out of the infirmary with strict instructions not to overexert himself. The doctor had shaken her head at him as he left. Four-star Generals weren’t supposed to get themselves shot under any circumstances.

Something about the tilt of her head and her look of exasperation had thrown him off, and for just an instant he’d thought she was … was …

So, you see, he had to come. After that instant of mistaken identity, the memories had flooded back in aching Technicolor, and now he was here and didn’t know what to say.

In the end, he didn’t say anything. He just carefully placed the roses on the snow in front of a stone that read: “In memory of Dr. Janet Fraiser.” So few words to try to describe such a life.

When he turned away, it was with a lingering image in his head: brown eyes, auburn hair, a petite frame exuding confidence, high heels clicking as she walked away one last time.

The embodiment of compassion and courage.

In his mind, Janet Fraiser would always be a hero.