The Wistful Mountain
The mud in the trench outside St. Jude was not merely wet but a living, sucking entity that fought every movement of Elias Thorne’s shovel, a thick, anaerobic slurry that coated his hands and seeped into the seams of his uniform with a coldness that felt less like temperature and more like a physical weight pressing against his ribs. He was thirty-two, a sapper by trade and by desperation, and...
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