The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-18 13:38:16 -

The air in the city was thick, a heavy, wet blanket of fog that smelled of diesel, wet wool, and the faint, sweet rot of autumn leaves crushed under a thousand indifferent shoes. It was the kind of gray that did not belong to the sky but seemed to seep up from the pavement itself, swallowing the streetlights one by one until the world was reduced to a blur of amber and charcoal. We were...

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