The Wistful Mountain
The green moss pulses on the ledger, a slow, rhythmic throb that matches the beating of your heart. You stand in the office of Director Ashworth, the air thick with the scent of old paper and damp earth, your hand trembling as you hold the petition for your sister’s care. The year is 1893, and the textile mill outside this window grinds the day into dust, but here, time seems to pool and...
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