The Wistful Mountain
The departure from Harrow’s End was not marked by a grand farewell, but by the quiet, suffocating weight of a suitcase left on the porch, its leather straps worn thin by the friction of years. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon stood before the threshold of his study, a room that smelled of dust, dried lavender, and the slow decay of paper, watching the rain blur the world into a watercolor of grays and...
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