The Wistful Show
You are holding the cap. It sits in your lap, a small, dark mound of wool that has lost its shape under the weight of your hands. The brim is soft, almost liquid, worn down by the years of your own touch, of sweat and rain and the quiet friction of a life lived in uniform. It is a standard issue cap, the kind every man in the battalion wears, but this one is yours. It is the only thing that...
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