The Wistful Mountain
The fox sat in the center of the sterile, white-tiled room, its fur matted with the grey dust of the hallway and its eyes, which were not eyes but two dark, polished stones that reflected the flickering fluorescent lights above, staring at the boy who stood trembling by the door. It did not growl, nor did it bare its teeth; it simply sat, a perfect, terrifying statue of wildness contained...
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