The Distant Metropolis
The mud of the Somme did not merely cover Elias Thorne; it consumed him, a cold, sucking weight that fused his tattered uniform to the skin of his legs and chest, turning every step into a labor of extraction. He was thirty-four years old, a sergeant who had seen the machinery of war grind men into paste, and his only desire, the singular, desperate want that kept his heart beating against the...
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