“Ludwig,” Alfred says.
Flatly, eyes dull, is how he says it, and it hits Ludwig hard. Harder than the bullet had, tearing through the meat of his shoulder.
“I am,” he says, and his English is perfect, no accent—his commanders had liked that about him, an American-born German coming home—“Ludwig…
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asdhaskdha ;AAAA;
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stop making me cry
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tears
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proustianrecall said:
Phenomenal.
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uro-boros posted this
sonja's personal also art blog.