The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-23 03:51:16 -

The brass buckle of my waistcoat, cold and dull against my thumb, is the only thing I have left that feels solid. I sit in the corner of the outpost, the walls sweating with a damp that smells of wet wool and old rot, and I write this down before the ink freezes or my hands shake too badly to hold the pen. It is November, 1892, and I am Sergeant Elias Thorne, though the men here call me only...

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