The Wistful Mountain
The rain hits the cobblestones of the old quarter with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat slowing down, a dull, wet thud that you can feel in your teeth. You are standing at the window of the small, cramped flat you have rented for the last three months, watching the grey water sheet down the glass. Outside, the city is waking up, the clatter of carts and the shout of vendors cutting through...
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