The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-17 22:34:23 -

The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate did not smell of roasting meat or spiced wine, but of old paper and the metallic tang of dried ink. It was a feast of words, a gathering of the living and the recently departed, all seated at a long table carved from a single piece of petrified oak. In this place, where time had curdled into a thick, amber substance, every object was a record, and every...

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