The Wistful Mountain
The mist does not lift from the valley until you are ready to leave it, a slow, deliberate exhale of the earth that seems to hold you in its damp, cold palm long after the sun has burned the horizon white. You are small in the center of the vast, crumbling library, a boy of twelve summers with ink under his fingernails and a secret so heavy it bends his spine forward into the shape of a...
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