The Wistful Mountain
The wisteria vine had grown into the flesh of Elias Thorne’s left hand, a slow, calcified fusion that had begun the day his father died and had tightened, year by year, until the roots were indistinguishable from the tendons of his wrist. For twenty years, Elias had tended the plant with the quiet, obsessive devotion of a man who believes he is saving the thing that is actually killing him, his...
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