The Wistful Mountain
The ceiling cracked first. A thin, jagged line of plaster detached itself from the water-stained surface of the community center’s attic room, falling with a dry whisper that cut through the hum of the ventilation unit. Clara Vane looked up from her laptop. The screen glowed with the spectral blue of a structural integrity report, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the dim light. She did...
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