The Distant Journey
The rain did not fall. It hung. A gray shroud over the courtyard. The stones were slick. I wiped the mud from my boots. The leather was stiff. It did not give. It had not given in years. I pulled the boots off. My feet were raw. Blisters. Old scars. The pain was a dull throb. I knew the rhythm. I looked at the uniform. It hung on a hook. The velvet was dark. Black. The gold braid was tarnished....
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