The Distant Summer
The rain does not fall here; it accumulates. It gathers in the hollows of your collar and the creases of your uniform until you are heavy with it, a soldier soaked not by weather but by the sheer weight of the atmosphere. You are in the Sector of the Grey Mist, a place that exists on no map you were ever shown, a bureaucratic black hole in the fabric of the world where time stretches like taffy...
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