Pink_floyd_fc_2_your_possible_past -

The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a radio. It was a broadcast about the war in the South Atlantic, voices speaking of duty and sacrifice in tones that sounded far too much like the ones he’d heard forty years ago.

Across the water, the gray hull of a decommissioned destroyer sat like a tombstone in the harbor. Arthur remembered the way the light used to hit the deck before the world turned cold. He remembered a woman named Eleanor standing on this very dock, her hand raised in a wave that felt more like a "keep going" than a "come back." pink_floyd_fc_2_your_possible_past

Arthur sat on a rusted bench at the edge of a rain-slicked dock in the south of England. The year was 1982, but in his mind, it was always 1945. He clutched a tattered leather suitcase, the kind that held nothing but ghost stories and half-written letters. The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a radio