The Distant Nightmare
The fog smelled of wet iron and old pennies, a coppery tang that coated the back of my throat and turned my saliva thick. I pressed the wax-sealed cylinder against my chest, feeling the cold hardness of it through the wool of my tunic. It was the only thing in the world that still felt real. The Northern Front had been a mud pit for three weeks, a churning slurry of mud and blood where men went...
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