The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-21 15:59:52 -

The coat was heavy. Wool, thick and dark, smelling of lanolin and old smoke. It hung on the peg by the door. I had worn it for twenty years. It was my armor. It was my skin. I am Elias. I am a weaver. Or I was. The guild no longer calls me that. They call me defaulter. They call me thief. I do not care for their words. Words are cheap. Cloth is not. I stood in the yard. The sky was the color of...

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