The Distant Ghost
The iron gate swings open. It groans. A low, rusted sound. You pull it shut. The lock clicks. A dead sound. Inside, the air is thick. It tastes of coal dust and ozone. You are not in the barracks. You are not in the trench. You are here. The ground is black glass. It reflects your boots. Your face is pale. Your hair is grey. You are old. You do not remember getting old. You walk. Your boots...
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