The Pale Banner
The ink was dry. It had been dry for years. I stood before the wall. The paint had faded to a ghostly white. The letters were still there. They were not words. They were marks. Sharp. Angular. Unreadable. To anyone else, it was graffiti. A scratch. A mistake by a child with a sharp stone. To me, it was a name. My name. I was twelve. My hair was thin and pale. I wore a coat that was too heavy....
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