The Distant Ghost
The iron gates of the Citadel of St. Jude did not open; they were lifted by the sheer, unyielding force of the morning wind, a gust that smelled of ozone and the damp, rotting earth of the valley below. You stood at the threshold, your small hands gripping the cold, jagged stone of the parapet, watching the world dissolve into a blur of gray mist and distant, thundering artillery. The war had...
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