The Wistful Mountain
The road to the high passes was not a road in the way men built roads, but a suggestion left by the wind, a pale scar of gravel and dried lichen that snaked up the flank of the mountain like a vein beneath translucent skin. Thomas walked it with the heavy, rhythmic cadence of a man who had spent thirty years marching in straight lines, his boots striking the stone with a dull, final thud. He...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews