The Wistful Mountain
The fog sits heavy on the valley floor. You climb. The air is thin. It bites your lungs. The iron gate looms ahead. Rust eats the metal. It weeps red tears. You push through. The sound is a groan. A death rattle. Behind you, the world fades. The road is gone. The sky is a bruise. Purple and black. You walk on. Your boots strike the stone. *Click. Click. Click.* A rhythm. A countdown. The...
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