The Wistful Mountain
The cartilage in Thomas’s right knee had begun to grind against itself like two millstones turning in a dry creek bed. It was a subtle, grinding friction, a mechanical failure that preceded the visible ache by several days. He sat in the high-backed chair at the far end of the stone chamber, his hands resting on his thighs, fingers splayed and pale. The room was silent, save for the distant,...
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