The Wistful Letter
The pen scratched against the lined paper, a dry, frantic sound that cut through the silence of the barracks. Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, the ink blurring the date he had just written: October 14th, 1943. He was forty-two years old, a Sergeant in the 104th Infantry, and he was dying of a cold that lived in the wool of his uniform. The fabric was heavy, not with damp, but with a dense, sucking...
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