The Wistful Mountain
The rain is not falling, it is being thrown at the window, a grey, relentless slap against the glass that turns the view of the courtyard into a smeared watercolor of slate and shadow, and you are sitting there with your back against the cold brick, your hands wrapped around a mug of tea that has gone cold an hour ago, watching the steam rise in thin, confused wisps that dissolve before they...
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