The Wistful Mountain
The glass was cold against my palm, a sharp, brittle thing that had once been part of a larger, whole vessel. I held it tightly, my fingers digging into the jagged edge, the pain a dull, familiar throb that kept me tethered to the present moment. It was the only thing I owned that had not been confiscated, though even this fragment of crystal felt like a contraband item in the sterile air of...
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