The Wistful Mountain
The letter from the Treasury Department lay on the scarred oak desk, its edges soft and frayed from the way Elias Thorne had turned it over and over in his damp hands, the ink blurring into a grey smear that mirrored the fog pressing against the single, grimy window of his quarters. It was a notice of final review, a bureaucratic polite way of saying that his pension, the only thing standing...
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