The Wistful Mountain
The silence in the Hollow was not empty; it was thick, a viscous substance that coated the lungs and slowed the heart rate to a glacial crawl, forcing the body to adapt to a rhythm that had no business existing in the modern world, yet here, in the ancient, mist-shrouded folds of the Appalachian foothills, time had folded back on itself like a crumpled letter, and I stood at the threshold of my...
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