The hunched figure shuddered, and a long, thin arm readjusted the rather worn hat resting on its head. The appendage retreated back to the workbench, and the beetle-like creature sighed. Picking up his paintbrush, he began again the delicate coloring of the tin soldier’s face.
It was the mustaches, he realized, that twirl he had made—he hadn’t thought about it while doing it—they made the little soldier all too familiar. He could imagine his friend’s voice, the dry, monotone:
“Suppose we’ll be shot tomorrow,” he’d observe every night until they were. The old wound ached with the memories.
Tale Told 