The Wistful Mountain
The dampness of the basement was not merely a condition of the air but a physical weight, a thick, coal-smoke-choked blanket that pressed against Arthur Vane’s lungs as he leaned over the petri dish, his eyes burning from the strain of holding the magnifying lens steady. He was forty-two years old, a chemical engineer whose career had withered in the shadow of the Harrowgate Textile Mill, and...
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