The veterans hall smelled faintly of coffee and old varnish — the kind of scent that clings to places built for memory. Rows of folding chairs faced a small stage draped in flags. The crowd was polite, murmuring, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Clare stood near the back, hands clasped behind her, posture instinctively straight. Her uniform — pressed, immaculate, understated — drew a few curious glances.
She hadn’t worn it in public since the reassignment. The silver oak leaves on her shoulders caught the light each time she moved. She had debated wearing civilian clothes, but something in her refused to hide.
Evelyn spotted her almost immediately.
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