The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the shoulders of the men in the high-rise boardroom, a physical weight that pressed against the glass and seemed to seep into the pores of the expensive wool suits, dampening the air with a scent of wet stone and old money that hung heavy over the conference table where Marcus Thorne sat with his hands folded, his...
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