The Wistful Mountain
"Stay." The word hangs in the air. It is thick. It is cold. "Stay," you say again. Your voice is small. It breaks on the edge of the door. The man does not look at you. He looks at the map. The map is old. The ink is faded. The lines are red. The red is like blood. The red is like fire. "Who is it?" you ask. He does not answer. He draws a line. The line cuts across the valley. The valley is...
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