The Pale Shadows
The cold in Post 44 was not merely a temperature but a weight, a physical pressure that settled into the marrow and refused to leave, and I sat in the center of the freezing outpost, my fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee that had long since gone ice-cold, watching the pale, translucent fingers of the fog press against the single pane of glass. I wanted to leave, I wanted to be in the city,...
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