The Pale Letter

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2026-08-22 09:33:40 -

The Pale Letter

The rain did not fall; it was pressed down from the grey sky like a thumb against a bruise. November, 1916. The mud in the trench at Delville Wood was not soil. It was a living thing, a thick, sucking mass that ate leather boots and swallowed bones with equal indifference. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and dies every time the wind finds a crack in the dugout...

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