The mud in the trench is not just dirt, you understand, it is a living thing, a wet, sucking mouth that tries to pull you down into the earth where the roots of the old oaks have long since rotted into black sludge. You are holding the rifle, but it feels like a piece of driftwood, heavy and useless, your fingers white-knuckled around the stock until the wood splinters against your skin. The...
The rain did not fall. It hung.
It was a thick, gray veil that turned the moor into a sea of wet wool. I walked. My boots were heavy. They were made of leather, old and stiff. They belonged to my father. I had not worn them in years. Today they felt like cages for my feet.
I am a scholar of things that do not exist. That is the joke. That is the truth. I study the folklore of the lost. The...
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