The Wistful Mountain
The rain in Seattle did not wash the city clean; it merely made the grime slick and reflective. Elias Thorne stood at the corner of Pike and Pine, his coat soaked through to the skin, watching a woman leave him. She did not look back. She walked away into the gray mist, her heels clicking a rhythmic denial against the wet pavement, and Elias felt the hollow space where her voice used to be...
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