The bullet hits.
I was gifted to him when he was just a boy.
We’d play war and children’s games. Eventually, true war came to his step. He walked out, facing it.
Though he was brave, he was just a boy.
He brought me along, watching over him as always. The tin soldier in the real one’s breast pocket.
Too many battles, too much death. The game, now a memory.
Another battle. A bullet meant for him ripped through the air, stopping just before piercing his flesh.
No longer watching, finally protecting him. Saying goodbye when he’s become a man.
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