The Wistful Mountain
"Do you believe it is still there?" I asked, my voice sounding small and brittle against the vast, grey expanse of the heath. We had been walking for hours, our boots caked in the thick, iron-rich mud of the Scottish Highlands, and the wind was picking up, whistling through the bare, skeletal branches of the rowans that lined the narrow track. My brother, Thomas, did not answer immediately. He...
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