Damn. He didn’t want her included in the
recollected horror his life often was.
He startled when her small hand caught the side of his face and turned his head to her. In the predawn gloom, she levelly met his gaze, her eyes bright with sleep. Without any prelude, she said, “You told me on the train that sometimes talking about things can make them better. Do you want to tell me what happened to you during the War?”
For a moment he hesitated. He never talked about what happened. He’d never been able to force the words past a constricted throat, or drag the breath into his lungs to speak of those black days.
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