The Pale Mist
The rain had not stopped for three days, and the water gathered in the gutters of the old Victorian house on the hill, flowing in thick, grey sheets down the steep driveway to the road below. Inside, the air was still and heavy with the scent of damp wool and old paper, a smell that seemed to settle into the bones of the furniture and the skin of the people who lived there. Elias Vance sat in...
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