The Wistful Throne
The wind did not howl; it screamed, a high-pitched shriek that tore at the fabric of my jacket and rattled the loose shingles of the outpost. I was on my knees in the mud, the cold seeping through my trousers, my hands raw and bleeding from gripping the radio handset that refused to transmit. Twenty years of service, twenty years of standing at the line, and now I was forty-two years old and...
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