I thought I recognised him: the steady gaze, the strong hands, the broad shoulders, now a little stooped. Of course he had changed as all of us, all of us still living that is. The long untidy hair was in sharp contrast with the close-shaven head of my memories.
The shabby civilian clothes did not compare with the stiff black uniform he he had worn with pride, then, before the fall. The black uniform of assassins and torturers.
Behind us children were playing, one of the old clocks chimed. The shivering sound reminded me of the present: the war was over, the city was now free.
And yet, it was inhabited by ghosts: those of the traitors and their victims.