The Wistful Mountain
The dream was not of the past, as one might expect of a man whose memory had begun to calcify under the weight of decades, but of a door that had never existed, a heavy oak slab set into the side of a cliff face so sheer that the wind died against it with a sound like a sighing of relief. I stood before it in the dream, my hands empty, my uniform discarded somewhere in the labyrinthine folds of...
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