The Golden Crossing
The soup is hot. It steams against the cold glass of the diner window. You hold the spoon. Your hand shakes. Not from cold. From fear. From the weight of the uniform you are about to remove. The meat is tender. The broth is clear. It tastes like iron. It tastes like home. It tastes like the end. "Order up," the waitress says. Her voice is flat. Mechanical. She does not look at you. She looks at...
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