The Wistful Mountain
The shrapnel had not killed him, nor had the blast, but the silence that followed the impact was a physical weight, a thick, gray sludge that coated the inside of his chest and settled into the marrow of his bones, leaving him gasping not for air but for a memory of what peace had sounded like before the world had turned into a machine of grinding metal and screaming flesh. He lay in the...
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