The Wistful Mountain
The clock on the wall of the office does not tick. It holds its breath. You sit at the heavy oak desk, the wood polished to a mirror sheen by decades of anxious hands, and you watch the reflection of your own face staring back from the grain. It is a face you do not recognize. It is older, thinner, with eyes that have seen the same gray light too many times. You are Elias Thorne, and you are...
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