The Wistful Mountain
The roof collapsed at dawn. Not with a roar, but with a sigh. The timber groaned, shuddered, and then let go, dragging half the ceiling down into the living room where the dust lay thick as snow. Elias Thorne stood in the hallway, his hand still on the doorknob of the study, watching the debris settle. He did not run. He did not scream. He simply watched the world he had spent forty years...
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