The Wistful Mountain
The building spoke. It did not scream, nor did it whisper in the way of ghosts haunting a hallway; it hummed through the copper pipes of the heating system, a low, grinding vibration that traveled up through the floorboards and into the soles of Elias Thorne’s shoes. He stood in the Director’s office, the heavy oak door closed behind him, holding a leather-bound ledger that smelled of dust and...
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