The Wistful Mountain
The air in the basement of the old mill smelled of wet stone and rotting wood, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to cling to the back of the throat, tasting of iron and decay. We sat in a circle of folding chairs, the plastic cold against our backs, while the rain hammered against the single high window set into the concrete wall, blurring the view of the overgrown yard into a smear of gray...
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