The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the stone walls of the Meridian Institute and the wet pavement of the street outside. Elias Thorne stood before the open window of his office, the cold air biting at his cheeks, watching the water race down the glass in chaotic, silver threads. He was fifty-two, a man whose life had been...
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