The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into a mirror of the weeping sky, reflecting the soot-stained brickwork of the foundry where you had spent the better part of your waking life. You stand in the center of your small, sparse room, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of the iron that...
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