The Wistful Mountain
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor of slate and rust, and as I packed the last of my books into the cardboard box, I felt a physical tearing sensation in my chest, as if some vital organ were being gently but firmly pulled from its housing. I am Dr. Elias Thorne, or at least I was, a lecturer in comparative...
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