The Wistful Letter
The coughing started again, a wet, grinding sound that seemed to tear from the center of the room. "Keep your head down, Elias. The Major is in the corridor." Sergeant Elias Thorne did not look up from the notebook in his lap. He was thirty-four years old, with hands that had long since forgotten the smoothness of youth, now mapped with the white scars of old burns and the roughness of men who...
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