The Wistful Mountain
The rain on the roof of the old stone chapel sounded like the tearing of wet linen, a relentless, rhythmic shredding that seemed to pull at the very sinews of the air, and old Sergeant Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the nave, his back against the cold, damp masonry, holding his left hand in his lap with a tenderness that bordered on the absurd, a devotion so fierce and obsessive that it made...
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