The Distant Summer
The order was written in blue ink on heavy cream paper, the kind that cost three pence a sheet and smelled of the office where it had been printed. I read it twice, my thumb pressing against the wax seal, feeling the weight of the paper against the bone of my hand, which had begun to feel light, as if the marrow were being scooped out by a spoon. It was November, 1912, and the mud of the Somme...
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