The Pale Mist
The porcelain bowl shattered on the flagstones of the market square, scattering its blue glaze into a thousand jagged teeth. I stood there, my hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, terrifying weight of what I had just done. The sound was not a crash, but a crack, sharp and final, echoing off the brick facades of the town. Around me, the morning rush of Harrowgate continued,...
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