The Wistful Mountain
The rain has been falling for three days now, a relentless, cold sheet that turns the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a slick, black mirror reflecting the gaslight and the damp, bruised purple of the twilight sky, and you stand in the center of the workshop, your hands still stained with the black ink and the red ochre, feeling the weight of the silence that has settled over the room like...
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