The Wistful Mountain
"You’re billing for a body that isn’t there." The words hung in the air, cold and sharp, cutting through the sterile scent of boiled linen and old floor wax. I did not look up from the ledger. The paper was thin, brittle at the edges, yellowed by years of damp air. It was a mistake of the sort that happens in places like this, where the living and the dead are kept in the same wing, separated...
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