The general’s salute hit me like shrapnel I’d thought I’d outrun, tearing thirty quiet years wide open in a single, public breath. I’d come as a father in a cheap flannel, content to clap and fade into the stands while my daughter became an officer without inheriting my ghosts. But when three stars stopped in front of me, eyes fixed on the scarred leather around my wrist, and called me “sir” over the stadium speakers, my past stopped pretending to be dead. It stood up, dusted off the sand, and walked straight toward my da… Continues…
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