The Wistful Mountain
The dream is always the same, a brittle, crystalline fracture that begins at the knuckles and races up the radius, a sound like a windowpane shattering in a silent room, and you wake with the taste of iron and cold glass on your tongue, the sweat cooling on your skin as the grey light of the Appalachian dawn filters through the barracks window. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border patrol...
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