The Wistful Saga
14 November 1919. The letter lay on the warped table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the room, a pale rectangle of official refusal that smelled faintly of the ink and the cold stone street outside. I read it three times, not because I did not understand the words, but because my hands, which had been steady enough to hold the pen while I filled out the initial claim forms, now...
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