The Wistful Letter
The mud sucked at your left boot with a wet, tearing sound, a visceral rejection that echoed in the hollow of your chest. You pulled free, leaving a deep, black imprint in the silt of the no-man’s-land, the rain hammering the rusted iron ribs of the border fort around you. In your hand, the letter from Clara was damp and soft, the ink bleeding into a brown smear that rendered her words...
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