The Wistful Mountain
The light in the reading room was failing, the afternoon sun slanting through the high, grimy windows to illuminate the dust motes that swirled like suspended debts in the stagnant air. I sat at the long oak table, the surface scarred by decades of ink stains and coffee rings, and watched Director Halloway’s shadow lengthen across the floor, a dark shape that seemed to consume the light rather...
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