The Pale Mist
The air in the Grand Ballroom of the Whitmore Estate hung heavy, thick with the scent of tuberose and the metallic tang of anxiety that seemed to seep from the walls of the old Victorian manor. It was a night of gold leaf and hushed whispers, a celebration of the centennial of the estate’s industrial dominance, yet to Elias Thorne, it felt like a funeral for a ghost he was only beginning to...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews