The Wistful Mountain
The pen in Elias Thorne’s hand felt heavy, the brass nib cold against his thumb as he hovered over the actuarial table, the paper beneath it smooth and terrifyingly white. He did not look up at the body in the bed; he looked at the spreadsheet on his laptop, the cursor blinking in a rhythm that matched the dripping of water from the leaky faucet in the kitchen, a sound that had become the only...
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