The Wistful Mountain
The jar sits on the shelf, its glass clouded by decades of dust and silence, and you know, with a certainty that settles into your bones like cold iron, that you are meant to be its contents. You are the essence, the distilled sorrow, the bitter root that has been scraped from the earth and dried under a sun that never truly warms. The room is small, a cellar beneath the old manor, the air...
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