The Golden Quest
The rain on the glass of the train window blurs the world into a smear of grey and green, and you sit in the corner seat, your hand resting on the cold brass of your sidearm, feeling the weight of it settle into your palm like a secret kept too long. You are not a soldier, not anymore, but the muscle memory remains, the way a scar remains, a reminder of a war that ended with a handshake and a...
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