He had watched the ruins of buildings rebuilt, almost in unseemly haste, as if to purge the lingering scars of destruction from sight, from memory. Me...tal scars could not be expunged from the mind so easily. Time is the only healer, and that, not very successful.Every year, the ever dwindling numbers of ex-service men, filed along the Mall, a proud march, to lay wreaths of poppies at the Cenotaph and pay their respects. Each had a story of the last world war, holding memories of fallen comrades. "This is not happening," camethe response, albeit in two feminine voices.Trent walked into the kitchen and saw a spotless room. His eyesimmediately caught the fridge door. It was clear of all the usualcrap hanging there. It had one of the orange flyers they had beenpassing out to promote their party. Except it was the back sideand it had some handwriting on it. Trent heard about the notefrom the nag next door, but hadn't looked at it. He pulled itdown and began to read. It wasn't the same as. More

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