The Wistful Mirror
The rain hit the slate roof like a drum. It was a cold, flat sound. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat at his desk. The wood was worn smooth by decades of elbows. He rubbed his left hand. The knuckles were swollen. They looked like old knots in a pine tree. He could not bend them fully. This was the price of the last tour. Or perhaps the one before. Time had blurred the lines. He looked at the wall...
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