The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate did not creak. That was the first thing I noticed, and the first thing that made my hands tremble against the cold, wet leather of my gauntlets. In the waking world, in the mud-slicked trenches of Flanders where the air tasted of cordite and rot, the iron gates of the old estates always screamed. They shrieked in protest against the rust, against the neglect, against the slow...
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