The Pale Mist
The stone of the chapel was cold against your cheek, a damp, living thing that breathed with the moisture of the centuries. You lay there, in the shadow of the altar, while the rain drummed a frantic, uneven rhythm against the stained glass windows. The world outside had ceased to be the world you knew. It was no longer the gray, soot-stained streets of London where you sold your mother’s...
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