I was seventeen when the war ended, but I felt a hundred years old. Europe was quiet, yet every train whistle still sounded like a warning. I had no home to return to, only names folded in my pocket like prayers?
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I was born into a century that tried to erase us. I saw the trains, the silence, the smoke beyond the trees. I saw names become numbers, families become photographs, and faith become an act of resistance. But?
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