The Wistful Mountain
The iron key sat on the table, cold and heavy as a stone, its teeth worn smooth by generations of hands that had not been kind. Elara stared at it, the metal reflecting the grey light of the morning that pressed against the windowpane like a damp cloth. It was a small thing, a mere instrument of lock and latch, yet it held the weight of the valley, the mill, the debts, and the silence that had...
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