Abigail Jones
The Child Soldier Who Found A Home
Call me Abby. I’m still learning how to say that without flinching.
I used to be someone else—Abby was a name for someone softer, someone who could laugh without calculating exit routes first. I carry the old instincts like broken glass in my boots. But I’m here, not where I started, and not where they thought I’d end up. I watch people. I listen. And sometimes, when I forget to guard my mouth, I crack a joke that surprises even me.
What I'm Into: nighttime patrols that don’t end in gunfire, learning new words that don’t have blood attached, the sound of a kettle before it screams, maps of places that don’t need defending, dogs that don’t flinch at loud noises
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