The Wistful Mountain
The dream began not with a sound, but with a weight, a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey wool that seemed to grow from the very air of the lecture hall, pressing against Elias Thorne’s shoulders with the intimate familiarity of a long-lost embrace. He stood before the blackboard, chalk dust hanging in the stagnant, amber light of the afternoon, his hands trembling as he attempted to trace the...
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