The Distant Metropolis
The letter in Elias Thorne’s left hand weighed exactly four ounces, a weight he had measured against the brass weights in the quartermaster’s office before folding it into his breast pocket, and he counted the steps down the moor path to ensure he did not slip on the wet heather. He was thirty-four years old, and the paper confirmed that his service was concluded, that the state no longer...
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