The Wistful Atlas
The mud is thick and red, sucking at your boots with a wet, muscular grip that feels less like earth and more like the skin of a living thing trying to hold you down, and you are not in the trench you were promised but in a place where the sky is a bruised purple and the rain falls upward, drifting like ash from a fire that has not yet been lit. You are holding a rifle that weighs as much as a...
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