The Wistful Mountain
The deed lay on the mahogany desk, a white rectangle of legal finality that seemed to pulse under the gaslight. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and retired from the regiment, reached for the fountain pen, but his left hand spasmed, the fingers curling into a claw that refused to close. The pain was not in the arm, for the limb had been taken at the Battle of the Somme three years prior, but...
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