The Pale Banner
Don’t touch the edge. You’ll crack it. The dust fell in thick, grey curtains, choking the light from the single high window that remained. I wiped the grit from my cheek, the motion a muscle memory from forty years of cutting limestone. The ceiling of the crypt was a fractured mosaic of broken slabs, a mouth opening to the sky above where the shelling continued its dull, rhythmic thumping. I...
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