The Distant Joke
The wind did not howl; it screamed, a raw, tearing sound that scraped against the ridge like sandpaper on rusted iron, and I stood there with my boots sinking into the permafrost, the cold biting through my trousers and settling deep in my bones, feeling the weight of the rifle in my hands not as a weapon but as a limb that had grown wrong, thick and heavy and pulsing with a heat that had...
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