The Wistful Mountain
The oak table in the center of the stone hall was not merely a piece of furniture but a monument to the slow, grinding erosion of dignity, its surface scarred by centuries of wax and neglect until it had become a mirror for the weary souls who gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling, a place where the air itself seemed to thicken with the dust of unspoken grievances and the weight of a system that...
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