a Short Story By S. Vincent Anthony

The diner’s neon sign buzzed like a dying insect, casting a red glow over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. Inside, Daniel Reese sat in a corner booth, his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room like he was still in Da Nang, 1971, waiting for an ambush. The air smelled of grease and burnt coffee, but to Daniel, it was cordite and monsoon mud, a scent that clung to him like a second skin. At 76, his face was a map of creases, each line a memory of Vietnam—screams, blood, the endless whine of choppers. The VA called it PTSD. Daniel called it living with ghosts.

He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the mug, a sound that echoed the clatter of M16 rounds. A waitress, young enough to be his granddaughter, refilled his cup with a tired smile. “You okay, hon?” she asked. Daniel nodded, lips tight. She didn’t know about the .38 tucked in his jacket, or the way his hands shook when a car backfired outside. She didn’t know about Private Callahan, whose brains painted Daniel’s uniform after a sniper’s bullet, or Specialist Nguyen, who hummed folk songs until a landmine silenced him forever. They lived in Daniel’s skull, their voices louder than the diner’s jukebox, playing some forgotten Springsteen tune.

Tonight, the trigger was a kid at the counter, wearing a camouflage jacket, laughing too loud. The green fabric flashed Daniel back to jungle patrols, to nights when laughter was a luxury and death was a shadow. He’d gripped the table, knuckles white, until the kid left. Now, the diner was quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the ghosts whispering in his ears. “Reese, move up! Frag out!” Not real, but real enough to make his heart a war drum.

His daughter, Sarah, had stopped calling. She didn’t understand why he’d snap at her kids for playing too loud, why he’d sit in the dark for hours, staring at nothing. He’d tried to explain once, about the weight—the way Callahan’s blood felt warm and wrong, the way Nguyen’s songs still haunted his dreams. She’d looked at him with pity, not understanding, and that hurt worse than the memories. So he stopped trying. The .38 was easier, a cold comfort in a world that didn’t see his scars.

Daniel pushed the coffee away and stepped into the night. The Indiana air was sharp, October’s chill biting his bones. He walked to the edge of town, where a rusted bridge spanned a sluggish river. Stars glittered above, sharp as shrapnel in the black. He leaned on the railing, the metal cold under his palms, and stared into the water. It reflected nothing but darkness, like his mind on nights like this. Callahan’s face surfaced in the ripples, then Nguyen’s, their eyes accusing, pleading. “Why you, Reese? Why’d you walk away?”

A voice broke the silence. “Mister? You lost?” A boy, maybe 14, stood on the sidewalk, skateboard under his arm. His hoodie was torn, his eyes wary but curious. Daniel flinched, hand twitching toward the .38, then stopped. The kid wasn’t VC. Just a kid.

“Ain’t lost,” Daniel muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just… thinking.”

The boy tilted his head. “You look like my uncle. He was in a war. Says he sees stuff that ain’t there sometimes.”

Daniel’s throat tightened. He wanted to walk away, to bury the kid’s words with the ghosts. But something in the boy’s gaze—raw, unguarded—held him. “Your uncle talk about it?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Says it helps. A little.” The boy kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering. “You ever try?”

Daniel looked back at the river, the ghosts still there, waiting. He thought of Sarah, of her kids, of the years he’d spent carrying the war alone. The .38 felt heavy in his pocket, heavier than Callahan’s body, heavier than Nguyen’s silence. “Not much,” he admitted. “Ain’t easy.”

The boy shrugged. “Uncle says it’s like spitting out poison. Hurts, but you breathe better after.”

Daniel stared at the kid, the words sinking deep, cutting through the static of memory. He saw Nguyen, not dead but humming, alive in a moment before the mine. He saw Callahan, laughing over a cigarette, not bleeding. The ghosts didn’t vanish, but they softened, their edges less sharp. “Maybe,” Daniel said, voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I’ll try.”

The boy nodded, like it was that simple, and skated off into the dark. Daniel stood alone, the river flowing below, carrying fragments of starlight. The weight was still there—would always be there—but it shifted, just a fraction, as if the silence could be broken, one word at a time. He pulled the .38 from his pocket, let it fall into the water with a soft splash, and walked back toward the diner, toward dawn, toward a chance to speak.

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