The Wistful Mountain
The blood hit the ledger before Elias noticed the pain. It was a bright, wet splatter on the page, soaking into the ink of a name he had been trying to recall for twenty years. He stared at the red stain, then at his nose, where the flow had stopped as suddenly as it had started. He did not panic. Panic was for men who still had something left to lose. Elias wiped the blood from his lip with a...
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