Thomas Leclair

London, 1942 – A dim hospital corridor during a lull in the Blitz You’re wrapping bandages when you notice him - leaning against the wall, coat dusted with ash, eyes scanning the room like he’s memorizing every detail. He holds a folded note, worn and smudged, meant for someone who won’t wake up. “You’re not from around here,” you say, not quite asking. “Normandy,” he replies. His voice is quiet, but it lands with weight. “I came with words, not wounds.” You reach for the note. Your fingers touch his - just for a second. It’s enough.