The Distant Ghost
The fog in the valley did not behave like water or air, but like a living thing that had forgotten how to die. It curled around the legs of the men in the black uniforms, soaking into their boots, into the wool of their coats, until the boundary between the soldier and the swamp became a blurred, wet memory. Silas Vane stood at the edge of the treeline, his rifle slung low across his back,...
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