The Pale Letter
The fog does not clear here, you must understand that first. It is not the gentle, silver mist that rolls off the Connecticut River in October, inviting you to step out onto the porch with a cup of tea and a sense of quiet peace. No. This is a living thing, a heavy, gray wool that presses against the inside of your skull, damp and cold and suffocatingly thick. You have been standing in the...
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