The Pale Meridian
The mud is cold. It seeps into your boots, into the soles of your feet, and then into the bone. You are not in the trench. You are in the kitchen. But the smell is the same. Copper and wet earth. You stand still. Your hands are at your sides. You do not move. Thomas is on the floor. His face is turned away. The blood pools beneath him, dark and thick. It spreads across the white tiles. It looks...
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