A memory. That was all it was. But so real that he could feel the fear of falling clutching at his breath. His heart pounded with exhilaration.
A memory that surfaced every time he caught sight of that wonderful, half destroyed water tower and the flag that flew at its peek. Sometimes it was so much that he had to lean against the wall of a house, his withering fingers sliding shakily over the pattern of dents made by shells.
He was a Croat and that was his flag. The flag he had placed there in the dark of night.