The Wistful Mirror

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-18 11:25:05 -

The mud in the trench did not smell like earth. It smelled of old iron and wet wool, a cloying, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to wash away. I sat with my back against the damp clay, my rifle across my knees, the wood slick under my palms. My name is Thomas, though the men in the platoon had long since stripped it of its softness, calling me only T. It was a sound...

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