The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 20:17:27 -

March 14, 1944. I have counted the stitches in the tear along the hem of my uniform six times. The thread is grey, frayed at the ends, and the needle is dull, but I keep counting. One, two, three. The ward smells of burnt sugar. It is a thick, cloying scent, like caramel left too long on the stove, and it sits in the back of my throat, coating the taste of the cold coffee I drank an hour ago. I...

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