The Wistful Mountain
I. Who can hear the mountain when the snow falls too deep? I asked Vane this, standing in the draft of the requisitioned boarding house, where the tide through the walls sounded like a clock winding down. He did not answer. He only looked at my hands, which trembled over the ledger, and then at the factory whistle key lying on the table between us, its brass worn smooth by years of anxious...
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