Laying in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, James thought about what this meant for him. He thought of his future as a massive stretch of time, one from which he couldn’t get away. He’d have to find a girl, have kids, work a job, retire, die.
James Richardson was only nineteen years old, but the war had aged him in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. The innocence of youth had been sacrificed on the altar of experience, leaving him to navigate the uncertain path ahead, where the scars of war would forever be etched into his soul.