The Faded Photograph
The smell of iodine and burnt copper hangs in the air of the sterile processing room, thick enough to choke on, a metallic taste that coats the back of your throat as the conveyor belt shudders to a halt. You are standing there, in your pressed uniform, the brass buttons catching the harsh fluorescent light, staring at the pile of discarded rations that has spilled from a ruptured crate, a...
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