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Because who of us ever really knows what’s coming? Or what secrets will come back to haunt us in the end? The war might be over, but it still echoed through our lives like an endless roll of thunder.
He’d been dead fifteen months, but I would still find myself wondering when he would have leave next, or noting something I should tell him in my next letter. Those were the moments that were most agonizing, as if I were reliving the initial shock of his loss over and over again.
