The Wistful Mountain

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 06:13:01 -

The mist clung to the floor of the quarry like wet wool, smelling of iron and old rain. I stood at the edge, my hand steady on the hilt of my service revolver, watching the shape that moved in the grey. It was a stag, but the antlers were not the soft velvet of the season; they were jagged, white, and looked disturbingly like the knuckles of a dead man. I had spent three weeks tracking this...

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