The Wistful Saga
The mud is cold against your knee and the rain is a physical weight, a grey curtain that blurs the world into a smear of slate and rust, but you do not care for the wet or the cold, not anymore, because the only thing that exists in the immediate present is the weight of your service coat, the heavy wool soaked through to the skin, and the terrible, suffocating awareness that you are wearing...
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