The Wistful Mountain
The stone walls of Highgate Fortress did not merely enclose the institution; they swallowed the light, filtering the winter afternoon into a pale, spectral grey that clung to Elias Thorne’s shoulders like a second skin. He stood in the antechamber, clutching the leather folio of his final tenure report, his knuckles white against the worn hide, while the draft from the high, arched window...
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