The Wistful Mountain
The coffee in your mug is cold, the surface skin of it trembling slightly as you set it down on the polished mahogany desk. It is a small vibration, barely perceptible, but it matches the tremor in your own hands, the ones that have spent forty-two years holding pencils, calipers, and the weight of concrete. You look at Julian, who is leaning back in his chair, his tie loosened, looking at the...
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