The Wistful Mountain
The darkness is not empty; it is a heavy, breathing thing that presses against your eardrums, a suffocating blanket of coal dust that has settled so deeply into the pores of your skin that it has become part of your very flesh. You are Elias Thorne, and you are thirty years old, and you are dying, though you do not feel the pain of it so much as the terrible, persistent whispering in your...
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