The Faded Frequency
The tin of peaches was open, but the fruit was gone. Only the juice remained, a dark, syrupy stain in the dented metal, drying in the slant of afternoon light that cut through the supply depot window. I wiped my hands on my trousers, the wool rough against the skin, and looked at the label. The paper was worn smooth, the letters blurred by the damp. It was a trick of the light, I told myself. A...
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