The Wistful Mountain
The salt crust on my skin had hardened into a map of my own suffering, a topography of pain that I could trace with trembling fingers in the dark. I am a soldier, or I was, before the army stripped me of my rank and my name, leaving only the hunger and the duty. We were marching into the highlands where the air grew thin and the shadows lengthened like grasping fingers, and the only thing we...
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