The Wistful Mountain
The sky above the jagged spine of the Blackwood Ridge did not merely darken; it collapsed inward, a heavy, bruised violet curtain dropping over the world with a silence so profound it felt less like the absence of sound and more like the presence of a void waiting to be filled by the scream of the coming violence, and as the first thunderclap shattered the stillness, it was not the rain that...
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