The Wistful Mountain
The glass was cold against Elias’s palm. It was a small thing, no larger than a child’s hand, a simple cylinder with a slight bulge near the base. He had carried it in his coat pocket for three days. The weight of it was a familiar ache, a dull throb that matched the rhythm of his walking. The road to the valley was long. The air smelled of wet stone and pine resin. Elias was a mirror maker. He...
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