The Wistful Mountain
The ink was drying on the ledger when the first knock came, a sound so sharp and final it seemed to crack the silence of the room like a whip against a frozen lake. I did not look up immediately; I was too busy calculating the cost of a man’s dignity, trying to assign a number to the value of a name that had been spoken in the town square for forty years. The scratch of my quill against the...
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