The Wistful Mountain
The road to Oakhaven is not a destination but a wound in the landscape. You know this as you drive the rusted sedan, the engine coughing like a man with a failing lung. The air outside is thin, tasting of iron and old snow, even though it is late spring. You are returning to a place that does not exist on any modern map, a village suspended in a time that has forgotten how to move forward. Your...
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