The Pale Door
The mud on the trail is not merely wet; it is a living, sucking thing that holds your boots in a grip of clay and rot, pulling at your legs with every step you take toward the forward hospital. You are Elias, forty-two, a field medic whose hands have stitched a hundred wounds but whose heart is a single, frantic drum beating only for one name: Julian. Your son, nineteen and a soldier, was...
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