The Wistful Mountain
The house on the ridge did not look like a home, but rather a wound in the earth, a jagged scar of slate and rotting timber that clawed at the grey, unyielding sky, and I sat in the kitchen with the smell of damp wool and stale tea thick in my throat, listening to the wind howl through the gaps in the shutters, a sound that seemed to come from inside the walls themselves, a low, mournful moan...
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