The Pale Mist
The steam rising from the ventilation grates in the basement of the Whitmore & Sons Textile Mill did not smell of clean water or warm rain, but of a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like a bandage soaked in medicinal alcohol, a scent that Marcus Thorne had come to associate with the slow, inevitable rot of his own certainty, a certainty that had once felt as solid...
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