The Wistful Mountain
The explosion did not make a sound at first. It was a white void, a sudden absence of air, followed by the crushing weight of silence that pressed against Eames’ eardrums until they burst. He lay in the center of the administrative hub of the Northern District, a sprawling glass-and-steel monolith that had been built to monitor the anomaly. The glass was gone. The steel had twisted into shapes...
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