The Distant Nightmare
The mud is not just dirt. It is a living, breathing thing that sucks at your boots, a viscous, cold tongue that tries to pull you down into the dark earth where the dead are already waiting. You feel it in the marrow of your legs, a heavy, cloying resistance that slows every movement until your own body feels like a burden of wet sand. Rain falls in a steady, gray curtain, blurring the line...
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