The Wistful Mountain
You are standing at the edge of the bed, holding the hem of the grey wool cloak. It is heavy, heavier than it looks, woven from fibers that seem to absorb the light in the room. You have worn it for thirty years. It was the first thing your mother bought for you after the fire, a garment of such dense, dark comfort that it felt less like cloth and more like a second skin. Now, in this house...
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