The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-25 09:02:38 -

The brass of the service pistol felt cold and slick in your palm, the metal biting into the calluses you had built up over twelve years of patrolling the northern ridge. You held it not as a weapon, but as a weight, a counterbalance to the lightness of the fog that was beginning to creep over the treeline. It was November, 1942, and the air smelled of wet iron and decaying pine needles, a scent...

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