The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 20:41:54 -

The rain hit the cobblestones like a thousand tiny fists. It was the kind of cold that seeps into the bone, the old kind, the kind that makes you remember every fracture you’ve ever healed. I stood on the corner of Ashworth Street, my hand resting on the hilt of my service pistol. It felt heavy. Dead weight. Just metal. "You look like a ghost, Thomas," said the man next to me. He was young. Too...

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