The Wistful Mountain
The hammer did not strike the nail, but the sound of the blow echoed in the chapel vaults long after the iron had lifted, a hollow resonance that seemed to shake the dust from the high rafters and settle it upon the shoulders of the man who stood alone in the nave. It was a sound that belonged to the past, or perhaps to a future that had already begun to rot, but for Thomas Whitmore, it was the...
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