The Wistful Mountain
The ink in the ledger was not merely black; it was a void that swallowed the light of the gas lamps, a liquid night that pooled in the wells of the brass pen and dried into a permanent, jagged scar across the parchment. I sat in the center of the Great Hall of the Meridian Insurance Company, a cathedral of mahogany and dust where the air hung heavy with the scent of old paper and the metallic...
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