The Distant Ghost
The fog rolled in from the north, thick as wet wool. It swallowed the road. It swallowed the trees. It swallowed the memory of where the road had been. Thomas Ashworth woke with the taste of iron in his mouth. He sat up. The tent fabric groaned above him. He was not in the field. He was not in the trench. He was in the deep of the woods, somewhere the map had no name. He checked his watch. The...
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