The Wistful Show
The mud had turned to a thick, sucking paste by the time the fog rolled in from the river. It was a cold, gray soup that swallowed the town of Oakhaven, blurring the lines between the cobblestones and the sky. I stood at the edge of the main square, my uniform soaked through, the brass buttons of my coat cold against my chest. My name is Silas Thorne, and for thirty years I have served as the...
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