The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 16:45:44 -

The coat hangs by the door. It is yours. You know this in your marrow. The wool is thick, heavy with the damp of a November night. You stand in the center of the room. The floorboards creak. You are alone. The silence is loud. It presses against your eardrums. You are a prisoner here. Not of bars. But of eyes. The eyes of the city. They watch you from the street below. They judge the shape of...

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