The Wistful Mountain
The door was closed. It had been closed for three days. Thomas stood before it in the grey light of the hall. The wood was dark. It was old. It smelled of dust and rot. He knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. The sound was hollow. It echoed in the empty corridor. The air was cold. It bit his skin. He was a clerk. He had a coat. It was thin. It was damp. He pulled it tight. He did not...
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