The Wistful Mountain
The train moved slowly. It cut through the fog. The city loomed ahead. Grey. Silent. I held my ticket. My hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. Or perhaps shame. I am a builder. I make things stand. I make them last. This is my life. This is my art. I have built houses. I have built bridges. I have built walls that keep the rain out and the cold out. I have built safety. I have built trust. My...
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