The Pale Mist
The mist did not rise from the ground; it descended from the heavens, a heavy, grey shroud that swallowed the spires of the university and the ancient oaks of the quad before it reached the cobblestones of the courtyard. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his office, watching the world dissolve into a uniform white. He was a man who lived in the margins of texts, finding comfort in the...
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