The Wistful Mountain
The fog did not lift. It thickened. "You are sick, Elara," said the Warden. His voice was dry as old parchment. "We must take you to the Clinic." "I am not sick," Elara replied. She stood by the window. The glass was cold. It was black. Outside, the world had ceased to be solid. It was only mist. "I am waking up." "Stop that," the Warden said. He stepped closer. His boots squeaked on the tile....
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