The Wistful Mountain
The train hissed against the iron tracks, a long, metallic exhale that seemed to drain the air from the valley. Elias stood on the platform, his hand resting on the handle of his leather valise, his knuckles white. He was a man of letters, a professor of etymology at the University of Cambridge, yet in this moment, he felt like a child holding a kite string in a gale. Beside him stood Arthur,...
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