The Wistful Mountain
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the world outside the window of the old farmhouse into a blurred watercolor of mud and decaying leaves, and inside, the silence was not merely an absence of sound but a heavy, physical thing that pressed against Thomas’s eardrums, a suffocating blanket woven from the damp wool of the blankets and the stale, sweet...
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