The Wistful Mountain
The needle slipped from Elias’s grip, vanishing into the dark gap between the floorboards with a sound like a bone snapping. He did not move. His eyes, red-rimmed and unblinking, stayed fixed on the hem of the wedding dress. It hung on the mannequin, a ghost of white silk that had not been touched by the sun in three months. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows of the alpine lodge, a...
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