The Wistful Mountain
The rain hammered the tin roof. It was a steady, cold drumming. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat in the chair. The room was small. It was cold. The walls sweated. He watched the water drip from the eaves. It hit the mud below. *Plop. Plop.* A rhythm. A countdown. He was a soldier. He wore the grey uniform. It was clean. It was stiff. He had been stationed here for three days. The outpost was a box. A...
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