The Wistful Show

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2026-08-19 01:33:39 -

The Wistful Show

The wind off the salt marshes hit my face like a slap, cold and wet, and I didn’t flinch because flinching was a luxury I couldn’t afford, not when the rain was turning the dirt road into a slick, black ribbon that snaked out into the nothingness of the moor. I was walking, or maybe I was just drifting, my boots heavy with the caked-on mud of a decade spent patrolling borders that didn’t exist...

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