The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-19 18:54:52 -

The mud on your knees is cold, a slick and heavy paste that has soaked through the wool of your trousers and pressed against the skin, stealing the heat from your bones in a slow, invasive tide. You are running, or perhaps you are only stumbling through the churned earth of the valley, but the effort is the same, a desperate, ragged heave of your lungs that burns with the taste of iron and old...

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