Greg woke up with the first ray of light cutting through the bedroom curtains. The clock on the bedside table read six-thirty in the morning—the same time as always, for more than forty years. Routine, to him, was a kind of silent prayer.
He got up, ran his hand through his still-thick gray hair, looked at his reflection in the mirror, and smiled with that expression that was half tired, half victorious.
Forty years of marriage—they were celebrating their emerald anniversary. Forty years of a lifetime that felt as though it had begun yesterday and, at the same time, a century ago.
The scent of fresh coffee and the sound of cutlery clinking in the kitchen stirred an old tenderness within him. Alissa was there, wearing a floral apron, preparing breakfast as she always did on special dates.
— Happy anniversary, my dear — she said, offering him a serene smile—the same one that had won him over in 1985, when he was still just a young police officer full of dreams.
— You're the one who deserves congratulations—for putting up with me all these years — Greg replied, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
— Oh, please… you're hardly ever home. It's easy that way.
He laughed, and that was the perfect balance of their marriage—Alissa's sharp humor smoothing the edges of his life as a police officer. She was his safe harbor, his anchor in a world that smelled of gunpowder and corruption.
While drinking his coffee, Greg noticed the passport on the table. A silent reminder that duty was calling him once again. He had an interview scheduled with a young journalist and, afterward, he would fly to London, where he would give a lecture at an international conference on security and terrorism.
Part of the job… he thought, watching Alissa idly stir her coffee.
Being Gregory Evans was not just about being a police officer. It meant carrying the weight of every case, every face that had seen hell up close.
After breakfast, with his children and grandchildren gathered around the table, Greg felt a surge of pride mixed with melancholy. His family was his greatest achievement—and, paradoxically, what he had sacrificed the most for his career.
Later, already dressed in a dark suit and wearing a focused expression, he stepped into Konker's, the small corner restaurant he had frequented for decades. The waiter, a witty Puerto Rican named Juanes Casanossa, promptly came to greet him.
— Greg, it's always an honor to have you here — he said with a broad smile.
Greg extended his hand, firm as always.
— The pleasure is mine, Juanes. The usual, please.
— Coffee without sugar — the waiter replied, winking his left eye knowingly.
— Bitter like a cop's life.
— And tasteless, like that of a hopeless lover.
They both burst into laughter. It was the kind of humor born from pain and experience.
— You can't have everything in life, Greg.
— But you can have the embrace of the woman you love.
— An embrace is for those who settle for little — Juanes shot back, teasing.
— Quantity without quality is the same as having nothing.
— Some would say otherwise.
— Only those who have never truly loved.
Juanes placed the cup of coffee in front of him.
— To each their own luxuries, right? — the waiter said.
Greg lifted the cup, took the first sip, and thought that perhaps the greatest luxury of all was peace.
That was when Juanes noticed the woman who had just entered. Tall, brown hair, confident steps. Greg caught the mischievous gleam in his friend's eyes.
— I hope you behave yourself, Juanes — he warned, still smiling. — She's my guest.
— I never behave around a goddess, Greg.
— I know… — he murmured, adjusting his tie.
The woman approached with the confidence of someone fully aware of the effect she had.
— Mr. Evans, it's an honor to meet you — she said, extending her hand.
— The honor is mine, Miss Faradday—but please, call me Greg. There's no need for formalities between us.
— Okay, Greg… — she replied with a slight smile. — I promise I won't take too much of your time. I'm heading to London. I got a job at The Sunny.
— The Sunny? — Greg raised his eyebrows. — Now that's quite a change.
He knew the British paper's reputation well—bold, sensationalist, dangerous. A whirlwind of headlines that could turn heroes into villains.
— I can imagine what you must be thinking… — Meggie ventured.
— I think what you know least is what I'm thinking, Miss Faradday — Greg replied with his characteristic wit.
She laughed, and in that moment, for a brief second, the weight of the years seemed to dissolve into the air.
When Greg arrived at the central office of the Police Department, Captain Dickinson was waiting by the window, jacket open and a tired look on his face.
— How was the interview? — he asked, crossing his arms.
— Smooth as always. The American media loves heroes.
— Yeah. I just hope the British press is more… understanding this time. The last time they mentioned your name, it cost us a few days of peace.
Greg gave a half-smile.
— Let's leave the past where it belongs.
— The past doesn't always stay where we leave it, Greg.
— I'm an optimist, Captain. I believe the future is a good place to hide from ghosts.
Dickinson shook his head, amused.
— One day I'll learn that optimism of yours.
— Oh, I'm an optimist too — Greg replied, opening his desk drawer. — I still believe I'll punch the face of the bastard who wrote that damned article.
They both laughed, and the sound echoed down the hallway like a brief pause between two storms.
What Greg didn't know was that, at that very moment, someone in London was already typing his name into a confidential dossier. And this time, the past had no intention of staying quiet.
As if it were a prophecy, he would soon fulfill that wish.