The Pale Door
The fog rolls in from the harbor. It is thick. It is white. You step off the train. The platform is cold. Iron clings to your coat. You are tired. Your bones ache. You have walked for three days. Your boots are heavy. They are wet. The town of Millhaven is small. It is grey. The smoke from the factories rises. It mixes with the fog. It becomes one. You look at the map in your hand. It is old....
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