The Wistful Mountain
The air in the Grand Archive of the Dominion of St. Jude’s smells of sulfur, dust, and the slow, chemical decay of time itself, a scent that coats the back of your throat like a metallic film, and you stand there, holding the garment that has defined your existence for the last thirty years, a heavy, woolen vest of a deep, bruised purple hue that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect...
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