The Pale Mist
The fog does not roll in so much as it leaks, a thick, pale exhalation that seeps through the cracks in the foundation of the orphanage, settling into the floorboards of the long hallway where you sit, cross-legged, clutching the smooth, cold stone in your hands. It is a gray, featureless morning, the kind that erases the horizon and makes the world feel small enough to hold in a cupped palm,...
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