The Wistful Mountain
The iron lattice of the asylum stretches above you like the ribcage of a leviathan, a skeletal cage of rust and cold that has swallowed the sky whole, and you wake not to the sound of a bell but to the crushing, humid weight of a dream that refuses to dissolve, a dream where the mountains are made of glass and you are trying to breathe through a throat filled with shattered shards. You are in...
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