The Wistful Incense
The mud in the trench was not merely wet; it was a living thing, sucking at my boots with the tenacity of a leech. I crouched in the dark, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the desperate, clawing need to see a way out for my mother. She was dying in the hospital back in the valley, her breath a shallow rattle that I could hear even here, three miles from the front line, a sound...
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