The Wistful Show
The rain had not stopped in three days. It drummed a relentless, monotonous rhythm against the corrugated tin of the depot roof, a sound that had begun to live inside my skull, a second heartbeat beating in time with the ache in my lower back. I sat on a crate of old ammunition, my hands resting on my knees, watching the mud swirl around the boots of the men who came and went. We were the last...
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