The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 00:53:44 -

The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the streets of Oakhaven into a sluggish, brown river that mirrored the grey, bruised sky above. In the basement of the old mill, the air was thick with the scent of wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of ozone, a smell that Margaret had always associated with endings. She sat in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, wearing a sweater...

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