The Wistful Mountain
The ledger of the mountain is kept in breaths, and yours are running short. You count them as you lace the boots, one for the inhale, two for the tie, three for the step, a rhythm that has governed your life for forty-two years but now feels less like a metronome and more like a rattle. The wool coat hangs on the hook by the door, its surface stiff with old sweat and the ghost of a hundred...
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