The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-22 16:17:47 -

The ink in the quill was cold, and the tip was trembling as it scraped against the parchment, a sound like a nail dragging across a chalkboard. You pressed your left hand flat against the table to steady it, but the fingers were already numb, the skin tight and waxy, a sensation that began in the marrow and crept outward until the hand felt like a glove made of stone. This was the price, the...

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