The Wistful Atlas
The mud in the Argonne did not merely soak; it consumed, a heavy, black slurry that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots with the tenacious, wet grip of a dying hand, and as he huddled in the trench’s shadow, the world outside had ceased to be a landscape of coordinates and became instead a swirling, opaque void of grey mist that whispered his name in a voice he recognized with a horror that stopped...
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