The Wistful Skyline
The morning mist at Dover clung to the white cliffs like a shroud, damp and cold against Elias Thorne’s wool tunic. He stood rigid on the platform, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the troopship *HMS *Vanguard* cut through the gray water, a dark speck against the churning sea. Beside him, Corporal Miller adjusted his pack, his face set in the grim, unyielding mask they both wore when...
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