[Asterisked Accolade]

"I slowly dragged my feet through the bloody sand toward Wade's body. I knew he was dead, but it wouldn't really sink in until I saw his face. I stood over him and my shadow covered him like a blanket. I didn't know what to say or do as I stared down at the tear-blurred vision of my only friend's lifeless body.
He was in the fetal position in a small sandy crater. I plopped down onto my knees and the tears were knocked down my cheeks. I put my hand on his bruised forearm and sniffled. He was still warm.
I leaned over him and slowly looked toward his face whispering, 'Wade, please be okay. . .' Sand-coated blood was dried on his forehead and left cheek, and a small stream of it ran from his blue lips onto his collar. I quickly looked away and cringed as I let go and sobbed. I collapsed onto his shoulder and cried into his burnt dress shirt. 'No, no, no, no. . .Wade you can't go. You can't be gone.'

After a few minutes I solemnly sat back up and my hand grazed his pocket, crinkling a paper. The corner of it was poking out and I gently pulled it. It was just a scrap, but written in his usual semi-legible doctor's handwriting was, 'William, we are not bad people because of the decisions we've made. Not until we've lost ourselves to them. You are not lost.' Under the last sentence, he signed, 'Wade.' Felix Miles had not referred to himself by that name for years, but that was how he knew I would remember him. And I would remember him, always.'' - William Bernard Hendriks, White Rook III: Vision of the Somnambulist | Chpt: Twice as Bright.