The Distant Summer
The transfer request form sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, the paper damp with the condensation that always wept from the stone walls of the barracks, and he watched the ink bleed slightly at the edges where his thumb had pressed too hard. He was thirty-two years old, and his left hand, the one that held the form, ached with a deep, grinding pain that had nothing to do with the cold, which was a...
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