The Wistful Mountain
The silver was dull, caked in the grime of thirty years, but Elias’s thumb worked the cloth with a rhythmic, obsessive pressure. He sat in the corner of his office, the space that smelled of wet wool and stale coffee, the rain hammering against the single pane of glass that looked out onto the gray alley behind the City Hall. The cufflinks were his father’s. They had been on his father’s wrists...
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