The Wistful Mountain
The fog rolls off the moors in thick, grey sheets, swallowing the iron gates of the Blackwood estate until the house stands like a dark tooth in a rotting gum, and you are twelve years old, standing on the top step of the cellar door, your knuckles white against the cold iron handle, listening to the rhythmic tapping that has driven your father mad and you to the brink of a reckoning he would...
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