The Wistful Mirror
The rain does not wash the mud from your boots; it only makes the dirt slicker, heavier, a second skin that clings to the leather until it dries into a hard, gray shell. You are walking the ridge line of the Appalachians, a stretch of land so remote that the mapmakers have long since stopped caring if it exists. Your uniform is soaked through, the wool heavy with water, but you do not stop. You...
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