The Distant Promise
The fog did not roll in from the harbor; it seeped up from the black, oily water, thick and gray, swallowing the iron skeletons of the dock until the world was nothing but a wet, breathing mouth. You stood on the edge of the pier, your fingers white-knuckled around the railing, watching the mist devour the streetlamps one by one. It was a Tuesday in November, the year the mill closed, and the...
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