The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-23 19:55:27 -

The hand was always cold. It gripped Elias’s wrist with a force that felt less like bone and more like iron, a vice that tightened every time he tried to pull away. He woke with a gasp, the sheets tangled around his legs, the digital clock on the nightstand reading 3:14 AM. The dream was the same as it had been for three years, since the funeral. His father’s hand, pale and skeletal, holding...

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