The Wistful Mountain
The rain tastes of iron. You know this. You have always known this. The metal tang clings to the back of your throat, a familiar ghost, as you step out of the taxi. The city is a blur of grey wet glass and neon bleed. You do not look up. You look down. You see your own reflection in the puddle. It is not yours. It is the face of the boy who died in the garden. You turn away. You know where you...
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