The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a cold, grey breath that settled into the marrow of Alderman Halloway’s bones. He stood in the center of the great hall, his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were white. The wood of the oak floor groaned under the weight of the silence. Around him, the portraits of his ancestors watched with painted...
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