The Wistful Mountain
The road to the high peaks is not a path but a wound, torn open in the side of the world, and you walk it now with the mud of the valley still caking your boots, heavy with the memory of what you left behind. The air here is thin, sharp as a razor, and it bites at your lungs, forcing you to breathe in shallow, terrified sips as if the atmosphere itself were a scarce resource that might be...
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