The Golden Cellar
The crate was warm to the touch, a heat that seeped through the leather of my gloves and settled into the marrow of my hands like a fever. I sat on the edge of the bedroll, the mud of the trench still drying on my boots, and stared at the wooden box until the grain blurred into a single, dark line. Three days I had waited for the courier, and now the silence in the dugout was so heavy it...
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