The Wistful Skyline
The question that has eaten through the last three years of my life, the one that sits in my throat like a swallowed stone, is this: does the ink know what it is? I ask it to the candle flame, which flickers in the draft of the garrison window, and I ask it to the iron key in my pocket, which has been warm since the winter of nineteen hundred and twelve. I am Lester Hutchins, a sergeant of...
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