The Wistful Mountain
"You look tired, James." I looked up. Margaret stood in the doorway. She wore the blue dress. The one I had given her. Three years ago. "I am fine," I said. My voice was flat. It felt like gravel in my throat. I turned back to the screen. The cursor blinked. It blinked. And blinked. The office was cold. The air conditioning hummed. A low, constant drone. It sounded like a dying animal. I had...
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