The Wistful Mountain
The dust in the basement of St. Jude’s Orphanage did not merely settle; it accumulated with the weight of decades, a grey silt that coated the spines of ledgers and the brass handles of filing cabinets. I had spent twenty years in this building, sorting the paper trails of the poor, the dead, and the forgotten, a task that required a silence so profound it felt like a physical pressure against...
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