The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-23 07:39:48 -

The ink was already running down my wrist when I stepped into the corridor, a black vein pulsing against the pale skin. I wiped it on my trousers, leaving a streak of wet darkness across the gray wool, and kept walking. The air in the Bureau of Records smelled of mildew and old paper, a scent that had settled into my lungs so deeply I could no longer distinguish it from my own breath. My name...

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