The Distant Whispers
The mud beneath Thomas Ashworth’s boots was not merely wet earth but a thick, sucking gelatin that seemed to possess a will of its own, pulling at his legs with a tenacity that mirrored the invisible hands of war gripping his soul, and as he stood there in the grey twilight, his rifle held loosely in a hand that trembled not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had...
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