The Wistful Mountain
The house had been waiting for him for forty years, a gray silhouette against the bruised purple of the evening sky, and when Elias Vane finally pulled the carriage to a halt in the overgrown drive, the silence that rushed in to fill the vacuum of his departure was not empty, but heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying wood. He had left this place as a young man, a scholar of...
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