The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it was hammered into the stone, a ceaseless, grey drumming that blurred the line between the windowpane and the wet world beyond, and in that blurring, Silas Vane felt the architecture of his mind begin to dissolve into a slurry of guilt and exhaustion, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the oak desk where the leather binding of the manuscript was...
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