The Wistful Mountain
The brass buttons of the lieutenant’s tunic had begun to corrode, not from the damp of the Scottish Highlands, but from the slow, insidious rot of time itself, a corrosion that mirrored the hollowing out of his own soul as he stood in the center of the iron-wrought atrium, a space so confined and heavy with the scent of old paper and decaying leather that it seemed to press against his temples...
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