The Wistful Skyline
Thirty-four years of border service had worn June Zorn down to the bone, a fact the annual barracks gala only served to highlight under the harsh glare of the chandeliers. The air in the hall was heavy with roasting meat and stale sweat, a physical weight that pressed against the lungs as the commanding officer raised his glass to the unbreakable spirit of the unit. June stood at the edge of...
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