The Pale Mist

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2026-08-19 17:04:34 -

The Pale Mist

The fire was too hot. It ate the oak logs with a hungry snap. The heat pressed against my face, a physical weight. I watched the flames dance. My daughter, Elise, sat on the rug. She was three years old. Her hair was like spun gold. She did not look at the fire. She looked at me. Her eyes were dark. Deeper than the coal in the grate. "You look tired, Papa," she said. Her voice was soft. Like a...

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