The Distant Summer
The rain on the slate roof of the barracks in Whitmore is a sound you learn to ignore, a rhythmic tapping that has become the heartbeat of your waking life, though you are no longer quite awake in the way that matters. You sit on the edge of the cot, your hands resting on your knees, the skin rough and mapped with the faint, white scars of duty, and you watch the water bead and run down the...
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