The Wistful Witness
The form, the one for voluntary discharge, lay on the desk with the weight of a slab of wet clay. Elias Thorne stared at the signature line, the ink in his pen trembling like a leaf in a gale, while the low, subsonic hum of the walls vibrated against the fillings in his teeth. It was a sound that had no source, a phantom artillery fire that had followed him home from the borderlands and settled...
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