The Wistful Mountain
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it seeped, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the old quarter and soaked into the marrow of anyone foolish enough to walk without an umbrella, which is precisely why Cillian stood there, shivering under the awning of the apothecary on Mercer Street, watching the droplets trace erratic, weeping lines down the glass. It was the kind...
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