The Wistful Mountain
The telegram lay on the splintered wood of the train table, its crisp, angular typeface stark against the yellowing paper. It was a simple thing, a bureaucratic summons from the Iron Peak Mining Company, but Elias Thorne held it as if it were a death warrant, his left hand trembling with a stiffness that had nothing to do with the cold. He was fifty-four, a man whose mind had always outpaced...
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