The Wistful Mountain
The iron key hung from my neck on a chain of tarnished silver, a cold weight that pulled at the hollow of my throat like an anchor dragging across the seabed of my conscience, a constant, grinding reminder of the debt I owed to the silence that had swallowed my wife. I stood at the edge of the precipice, where the fog rolled in from the valley below in thick, grey banks that smelled of wet...
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