The Wistful Silence

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 09:55:57 -

The mud is cold. It sucks at your boots with a wet, hungry sound. You taste iron on your tongue. A man falls in front of you. He is wearing the same grey as you. His face is slack, eyes open, staring at a sky that offers no answer. You do not stop. You cannot stop. To stop is to die. So you move. Your legs are pistons. Your breath is a ragged bellows. You are not here for glory. You are here...

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