The Wistful Mountain
The iron key hangs heavy on your neck, cold against the skin where the pulse beats, a metallic tongue that tastes of rust and old regrets. You stand in the center of the hall, the floorboards groaning under the weight of your stillness, and the air is thick with the scent of damp stone and dried lavender, a perfume that has preserved this room in a state of suspended animation for a hundred...
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