The Faded Portrait
The wind did not howl; it whispered, a low, continuous hum that vibrated in the marrow of the bones, a sound that had become the only language the world still spoke. I sat in the driver’s seat of the armored transport, the engine idling with a rhythmic, mechanical pulse that felt less like a machine and more like the heartbeat of a dying god. Outside, the whiteout had been constant for three...
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