The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 15:03:31 -

The train hissed into the station, a long, mournful exhalation that seemed to strip the color from the autumn afternoon. You stood on the platform, your uniform pressed sharp, your cap low over your eyes. In your hands, you held the brass compass. It was not a standard issue item. The casing was dented, the glass cracked in a spiderweb pattern that you had carefully sealed with resin three...

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