The Wistful Mountain
Elias Thorne, the name was called out by the fluorescent hum of the office, a sharp, electric summons that cut through the silence of the glass-walled room on the forty-second floor. He sat in the ergonomic chair, the kind designed to support the lumbar spine of a man who had spent twenty years in federal service, and he clutched the pot of wisteria in his lap. The plant was an anomaly, a thing...
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