The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 12:12:30 -

The rain did not fall so much as it hovered. It hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to my skin and soaked into the wool of my coat. I walked. The path was not a road. It was a scar in the earth, winding up through the pines. I had carried the crate for three days. It was heavy. The wood was dark. It smelled of rot and old sugar. I knew what was inside. I had packed it myself. My name...

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