The Wistful Mountain
You are standing in the ruins of a house that no longer exists, or perhaps it never did, a skeletal frame of rotting wood and shattered glass that the wind has been picking at for decades. It is a Tuesday, though the date feels irrelevant, suspended in a haze of grey light that offers no warmth, only a flat, indifferent illumination of the debris scattered across the yard. You are wearing the...
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