The Pale Letter
The ink on the page is still wet, a dark smear that refuses to dry in the damp cold of the trench, and you are thirty years old, Sergeant Elias Thorne, writing by the light of a single, sputling candle that smells of tallow and old sweat. You want only one thing, a permanent discharge from service, a clean break that will allow you to walk away from this mud and return to Martha, whose face you...
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