The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 08:41:57 -

The dream began with the smell of wet stone and old blood. It was not a nightmare, precisely. Nightmares have teeth, have claws, have a frantic logic of escape. This was a waking that never fully arrived. It was a suspension, a holding of breath in a room that smelled of lavender and decay. I was standing in the corridor of the Abbey, or rather, the structure that had been the Abbey before the...

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