The Wistful Mountain
The air in the cellar of the Whitmore estate was not merely cold but possessed a specific, heavy viscosity, a dampness that seemed to seep into the marrow of one’s bones and settle there like sediment in a stagnant pool, where the only light that pierced the gloom was the faint, dying amber glow of a single electric bulb hanging by a frayed wire, illuminating the rows of clay jars that lined...
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