The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 00:27:02 -

The rain in the city did not fall so much as it hung, a grey, industrial shroud that turned the gaslight into a diffuse, sickly halo and made the cobblestones slick with the oil of a thousand passing carriages. It was a Tuesday evening, late November, and the air tasted of coal smoke and wet wool, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of the throat. Major Arthur Thorne stood at the window...

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