The Faded Photograph
The rain hits the tin roof in a drumming staccato. You are wet. The wool coat is heavy. It presses against your shoulders. It is soaked through. You hold it tight. Your fingers are white. You are a sergeant. You are also a man. The distinction is thin. The distinction is tearing. The town is grey. The factories are dark. Smoke hangs low in the air. It smells of coal and iron. It smells of fear....
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