The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-21 11:55:56 -

The stone was cold against my palm, a sliver of the world I had left behind, and I pressed it into the soil of the garden that did not exist on any map. Here, the air smelled of wet moss and old paper, a scent that hung in the heavy, twilight air like a promise that would never be kept. I was Margaret, though here the name felt too large, too heavy a garment for the body that wore it. I had...

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