The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-18 03:32:29 -

The building smelled of wet wool and old paper. It was a smell I knew. My father smelled of it. He had died three winters ago. I was still there. I was a scholar. Or I had been. Now I was just a man in a coat. The coat was thin. The city was cold. I held the letter in my hand. It was from the university. They wanted my resignation. Or they wanted my money back. The words were polite. The...

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