The Wistful Mountain
The notice was pinned to the board with a rusted tack, the paper yellowed by nine days of rain. Gardens closed pending inspection. No exceptions. Padraig Gallagher read it twice, the ink blurring under the damp. He was thirty-two, a postal rider on the mountain route, bound by an indenture that smelled of ink and debt. He wanted to open the gate. He wanted to prove he was not the fool they...
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