The Armistice Project
The piano in the basement bar smelled of whiskey and regret. I played the same tunes night after night—ragtime and blues and things I made up that sounded like sadness without knowing why. The patrons didn't listen. They danced, they drank, they pretended the world outside those brick walls didn't exist. I was James Harrington, twenty-six years old, and I had survived the war by being born on...
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