The Wistful Mountain
"You have forgotten the shape of your own soul, Brother Aldous," the Abbot said, his voice not loud, but carrying the weight of centuries of stone and silence. He stood in the center of the circular chamber, his robes dragging across the cold flagstones, and I stood opposite him, a prisoner not of chains, but of a memory I could not quite grasp. The air in the crypt was thick, heavy with the...
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