The Faded Portrait
The radio crackles. Static bites the silence. You are moving. The terrain is hostile. Cold seeps into your boots. The mud is thick. It clings. It pulls. You do not look down. You look at the sky. Grey. Heavy. It presses against the ridge. You are a soldier. You are a man. You are a machine. The machine is failing. The gears are grinding. You feel the friction. It is in your joints. It is in...
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