The Pale Mist
The train did not stop at the border, but the world did. It was a slow, viscous halt, a suspension of momentum that Elias felt in the marrow of his bones before he saw the station. He sat by the window, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the grey glass, watching the landscape dissolve into a white nothingness. The mist was not weather; it was a substance, thick and opaque, pressing against the...
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