The trench reeked of waste, mud, and blood.
The man crouched against the wall of the pillbox, cradling a bolt-action rifle that was missing its rear sight.
Bandages wrapped around his skull like a cracked helmet, already soaked through in rust-colored red. His cheeks were hollow. His teeth clenched a half-burned cigarette like a final prayer.
He looked down at the photo again.
Her name had been Marisol.
She was smiling in the picture. They always were. Before war. Before Madrid burned. Before all this.
"She's probably dead," muttered one of the others, voice dry as the dust they slept in. "Or with some aristocratic bastard in her bed."
The man with the photo didn't reply. He just dragged on the cigarette and closed his eyes.
They were five in this trench line; five ghosts. Hollow-cheeked, mud-caked, starving. Eyes ringed with sleepless bruises.
Their uniforms barely held together with twine and luck.
Their rations had run out four days ago.
Their morphine? Two weeks.
