The Pale Bridge
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended gray curtain that blurs the edge of the world, and you are sitting in the center of the dining room, surrounded by the ghosts of a war that never officially ended, holding a piece of paper that weighs more than the bodies you left behind in the trench. The air is thick with the scent of wet wool and stale tobacco, the smell of a house that...
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