The Wistful Skyline
The mud in the trench was not dirt but a thick, sucking paste that smelled of iron and rot, and Elias Thorne’s boots were buried to the ankle as he waited for the next shell. He was thirty-four years old, and his back ached with a dull, constant throb that had become as familiar as his own name. The barrage had been going on for six hours, a mechanical grinding of the earth that reduced the...
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