The Distant Whispers
The wind off the moor does not blow; it pushes. It is a physical weight, a cold hand pressed against your chest, trying to shove you back down the slope toward the village and the warmth of the inn. You are fifty-two years old, Elias, and your heart is a failing engine, stuttering with every step you take up the incline. You are not walking for exercise, nor for the view, though the view is...
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