The Faded Root
The fog does not lift, it only thickens, pressing against the windows of the patrol car like a wet gray cloth, erasing the edges of the road until the world is nothing but a blurred smear of asphalt and streetlights that hum with a low, electric anxiety. You are sitting in the driver’s seat, your hands resting loosely on the wheel, your knuckles white, your breath fogging the air in front of...
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