The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it was suspended in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s tunic and seeped into the marrow of his bones, a persistent dampness that felt less like weather and more like a memory of the sea trying to reclaim the land. He stood in the center of the interrogation room, a space so small and windowless that the air had grown...
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