“What’s he doing there, Papa?”
“Serving his time,” he didn’t need to look to know what his granddaughter was pointing at. He could see it with his eyes closed. In his sleep. Seared into his very dreams.
“What time?” the innocence in the child’s voice returned him to the present. She could not know. So many died so she would not need to.
“His time in war,” he explained.
“To fight?” the green eyes were round under the cascade of unruly hair. The girl never could abide any hair-ties. Her mother despaired. He found it enchanting. He’d forgotten what it was to have hair
“But he’s just watching,” the child noted.
“Yes,” he nodded.
He looked up at the man frozen in time. So many of them were.
“I hope not, child.”
She pressed his hand.
“I shall bring him a blanket,” she said. “And a pup.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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