The Distant Garden

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2026-08-23 12:25:59 -

The count was precise: four hours until the next relief, three days since the last rain, and one cracked porcelain teacup in the left breast pocket of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s tunic. The smell of the trench was a thick, cloying mixture of wet wool, cordite, and the sweet, rotting scent of the latrines that had been dug too close to the firing line. Thorne sat on an upturned crate, his boots...

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