The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-17 14:17:42 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. It was a thick, gray curtain, woven from the mist that rose off the valley floor. I stood in the center of the room. My boots were wet. The floorboards were oak, old and warped, groaning under the weight of my stillness. I held the stone. It was cold. Not just cool, but a deep, living chill that seeped through my palms. It was a river stone, smooth and dark,...

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