The Wistful Mountain
Act I Gopal Khan remembered the taste of ash before he remembered the sound of the gun. It was a dry, chalky bitterness, like licking a rusted hinge, that had coated his tongue in the outpost at Kala, seven years prior. He was thirty-two now, but in the memory he was twenty-five, young enough to believe that the border was a line and not a wound. The mist in Kala was not weather; it was a...
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