The Wistful Saga
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges curled slightly from the damp air of the house. It was a form, standard issue, typed in a cold, mechanical font that offered no warmth and no apology. Elias Thorne, Sergeant, Fourth Battalion, sat opposite it, his hands resting on the wood, knuckles white. The light in the room was thin, the gray of early November pressing against the glass. He...
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