The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel road into a slick, grey ribbon that wound up the side of the Appalachian range like a scar over old skin. Elias Thorne drove his sedan with a steady, heavy hand, the wipers slapping a rhythmic, monotonous beat against the windshield that seemed to count down the seconds of his life. He was fifty-two, a man whose face had become a map...
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