The Wistful Petal
"Did you count the crates, or did you just sign the paper?" The question hung in the stale air of the mess hall, thick with the smell of burnt coffee and the damp wool of my uniform. I didn’t answer immediately. I was watching the way the light fell through the high, grime-streaked windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the cold draft. It was a Tuesday, I think, or perhaps a Wednesday;...
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