The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for six days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the world outside the window into a smear of mud and memory, and as I sat there in the study, listening to the water tap against the glass with the patience of a thief waiting for the house to sleep, I could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on my shoulders, heavier than any uniform I had ever worn, heavier...
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