His cane echoed loudly on the empty street. Nothing looked familiar. Granted, that was sixty-nine years ago. He stopped in the middle of the road, closed his eyes and allowed himself to fade back into his memories. The shouts of commands, the high-pitched scraping noise of metal-on-stone as tanks rolled by, the snap-hiss of bullets barely missing your head, the cries of the wounded and dying. Yes, nothing felt the same.
He knelt at the corner, placing down seven posies, one by one, saying a quiet prayer for his fallen friends and allowed the quiet to wash over him.
Filed under: Micro Fiction Tagged: Friday Fictioneers
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