The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived with the morning ration, the envelope damp and heavy in the mud, bearing the seal of the Central Command in a style that Elias Thorne recognized as Vane’s signature, a jagged scratch that looked less like ink and more like a wound. 14 November, 192X. I write this from the outpost, where the wind howls through the cracks in the stone walls like a man trying to get out. My left...
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