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“I get all choked up,” he says. “I don’t know why.”

The man flicks open a knife to sharpen his pencil.

The volunteer pats his back. She tells him the tears are normal. They are good.

Nearby, a wrinkled piece of paper leans against the wall. The wind can’t seem to move the scrap.

“In the end,” the paper says, “there is only the memory of the dead and the sound of old soldiers weeping.”