The Wistful Mountain
The carriage wheels bit into the gravel, a rhythmic grinding that sounded like teeth breaking on bone. Elias Thorne did not look at the landscape. He looked at his hands. They were resting on the velvet seat, pale and thin, the skin stretched tight over the architecture of his knuckles. He was sixty years old, a man who had spent three decades chasing shadows through the libraries of Europe and...
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