The Pale Mist
The rain does not fall. It hangs. A thick, gray veil of suspended water coats the city, blurring the skyline into a watercolor smear of charcoal and slate. You stand at the window of the fourth-floor apartment, the glass cold against your forehead. The air inside is still, heavy with the scent of wet wool and old paper. You are not afraid. You are tired. A bone-deep exhaustion that no sleep has...
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