The Wistful Mountain
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the world into a watercolor of mud and mist, and I stood on the precipice of the old stone bridge, watching the river churn below, holding the clay pot in my hands as if it were a living heart, warm and pulsing with a rhythm that matched my own terrified heartbeat. I had come here to surrender, to give back the...
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