The Faded Photograph
The mud sucked at his boots. It was a thick, grey paste. It smelled of wet iron and rot. Thomas pulled his leg free. He stood up. The rain stopped. Silence followed. It was a heavy silence. It pressed against his ears. He looked at the sky. It was white. Blindly white. No sun. No clouds. Just a flat, pale disc of nothing. He turned around. The trench was empty. His squad was gone. Not dead....
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