The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a thin, persistent sheet against the windows of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of the Unseen, a building that stood at the edge of the misty moors like a stone tooth set in the dark gum of the earth. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of hands that trembled with the weight of what they had touched. He...
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