The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 02:27:55 -

The mortar in the mortarar was dry. It had been dry for three days, ever since the last frost snapped the roots of the winter herbs, leaving the trowel caked in a gray crust that smelled of stale earth and regret. Margaret sat on the stone bench outside the infirmary, her hands resting on her knees, fingers stained a permanent, ghostly purple from years of crushing thyme and yarrow. The air was...

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