The Wistful Mountain
The autumn wind carried the scent of rotting apples and woodsmoke through the village of Oakhaven, where Elias stood in the doorway of his cottage, listening to the low, rhythmic hum that had become the soundtrack of his life. It was a sound only he could hear, a subsonic vibration that signaled the proximity of death, and today it was coming from his wife’s bedchamber. Margaret lay there, her...
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