The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-25 13:09:19 -

The air in the semaphore station tasted of salt and rust, a heavy, metallic weight that settled in the throat. I stood by the window, watching the fjord churn below, the water black and relentless against the cliffs. My left hand trembled. It had been trembling for three years, ever since the shelling in the south, ever since the noise stopped and the silence started. I was thirty-two years...

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