The Faded Sutra
The shelling did not begin with a bang but with a slow, grinding tear in the fabric of the morning, a sound like the earth itself was trying to straighten its spine after centuries of bending, and you, Thomas Bradshaw, felt the vibration travel up through the soles of your worn boots, through the marrow of your shins, and settle into the hollow of your chest where your heart had always beaten...
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