The Distant Summer
The air in the canteen tastes of iron and stale beer, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. You sit at a long, scarred table, the wood blackened by decades of elbows and spilled spirits. Around you, the mess hall hums with the low, rhythmic drone of men who have forgotten how to be quiet. It is a sound like machinery, a grinding of gears that never stops, never slows. You are...
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