The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in; it erupted, a violent, white exhalation that swallowed the valley of the River Ouse in a single, suffocating breath. It was the morning of the autumn equinox, a day that should have been marked by the crispness of the air and the clarity of the light, but instead the world had been erased. Inside the stone keep of Blackwood Hall, isolated by the mist like a relic of a...
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