The Pale Mist
The silence in the white room was not an absence of sound but a physical weight, a dense, gelatinous substance that pressed against the eardrums and settled deep in the marrow, a sterile vacuum where the usual chaos of the world had been surgically excised to leave only the bare, trembling architecture of the mind, and in the center of this nothingness, Elias Thorne stood, his hands trembling...
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