The Distant Summer
The brass buckle of your belt chafes against the skin of your hip, a hot, metallic burn that wakes you before the light does, and you are lying in the narrow cot at the end of the barracks, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling where a water stain has shaped itself into a map of a country you have never seen, while your hands, resting on the wool blanket, are trembling with a fine,...
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