The Wistful Mountain
The red scarf burns. It is a thin strip of wool, dyed the color of dried blood, and it sits tight against your throat like a noose. You wake with the heat still searing your skin, a phantom pain that lingers long after you pull the fabric from your neck. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, an archivist of the City Council, and for three weeks, this scarf has been your only companion in...
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