The Wistful Skyline
The discharge form sat on Elias Thorne’s lap, a single sheet of paper that felt heavier than the rifle he had carried for six months. He traced the signature line with a thumb that still trembled, a fine, persistent vibration that matched the low-frequency hum beginning to rise in the walls of the St. Jude’s Veterans’ Home. The air in the hallway smelled of industrial lemon polish and stale...
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