He brushed past his uniform with a negligent flick, though it hurt him to do so. It hung in the closet, weathered and dusty as if worn by a skeleton. At one point, it was.
During the war years, it had draped his emancipated frame as he was led from the POW camps by the winning faction. They were not released out of any sense of compassion, but because the war had ended without them some years prior.
They had lost. The whole damned country had lost. Perhaps, it was better in the camp. Better not knowing…the capital had fallen to flames, that his brother was shot through the heart, or that his town was nothing but old people and children. Perhaps, that was better.
He was one of the lucky ones, or so he’d be told, freed from the camps to live another day.