The Pale Mist
You have been digging in the yard of the house on Elm Street for three years, and the soil has long since forgotten what it feels like to be tilled, yet you continue, driven by a compulsion that feels less like gardening and more like a slow, grinding erosion of your own sanity. The town of Oakhaven is a place where the fog rolls in from the river every evening, thick and pale as milk,...
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