The Distant Threshold
The fog does not just sit in the valley of Harrow Creek; it consumes it, a dense, white suspension that swallows the ironworks and the brick rows whole until the world shrinks to the length of your own breath and the cold bite of the river mist on your exposed skin. You are standing on the rusted gantry of the old foundry, your boots sinking slightly into the grime of decades, and you are...
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