The Distant Summer
Thorne, you there? The voice cut through the grey mist of the trench, sharp and commanding, pulling Elias back from the dark water of his thoughts to the muddy reality of the parapet. He was twenty-six, a sergeant with hands that knew the weight of a rifle better than the weight of a letter, and in his breast pocket, pressed flat against his ribs, lay the last note from Clara. It was not a...
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