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Bienvenido, invitado ( Identificarse | Registrarse )
The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a radio. It was a broadcast about the war in the South Atlantic, voices speaking of duty and sacrifice in tones that sounded far too much like the ones he’d heard forty years ago.
Across the water, the gray hull of a decommissioned destroyer sat like a tombstone in the harbor. Arthur remembered the way the light used to hit the deck before the world turned cold. He remembered a woman named Eleanor standing on this very dock, her hand raised in a wave that felt more like a "keep going" than a "come back." pink_floyd_fc_2_your_possible_past
He often thought about the "possible pasts"—the lives he hadn't lived because he was too busy surviving the one he was handed. In one version of his life, he never boarded that ship. He stayed in the village, married Eleanor, and grew old watching the wheat fields turn gold instead of watching the North Sea turn black. In another, he had stayed in London, a poet with ink-stained fingers instead of a veteran with shrapnel in his knee. The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a radio