The Faded Frequency
The letter is stained. Not with dirt, but with something darker. A bruise in the paper. I wrote this by the light of a dying lamp in the iron room, the one that smells of rust and old blood. My hands shake. They always shake now. I have forgotten the taste of water. I only remember the taste of ash. My name is Elias Thorne. I was a soldier. I killed men for a flag I no longer see. I did it...
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