The Wistful Mountain
The fog in the valley did not lift; it merely thinned, like a bruise fading under a doctor’s hand, revealing the jagged teeth of the ironworks that clawed at the hillside. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the perimeter, his boots sinking into the mud that had once been a meadow, feeling the dampness seep through the leather and into the bones of his legs. He was a man built for order, a...
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