The Wistful Mountain
The rain at Kestrel Station does not fall; it hammers, a relentless, cold percussion against the corrugated tin roof that shakes the dust from the rafters. You stand on the platform, the discharge papers in your hand damp and softening, the ink of your name blurring into the grey sludge of the world. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a sergeant who has served twelve years in the...
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