The Wistful Mountain
The air in the sterile, white-tiled kitchen of the municipal sanatorium tasted of bleach and burnt copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and settled heavy in the lungs, a physical manifestation of the invisible rot that was consuming the institution and, by extension, the woman who had dedicated her life to curing it. I stood before the stainless-steel preparation table, my...
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