The Pale Mist

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2026-08-20 14:59:02 -

The Pale Mist

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, barred windows of the Sanatorium, a relentless, metallic tapping that sounded like nails being driven into wood. I sat in my room, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and boiled linseed. On the bed lay the coat. It was a heavy thing, made of rough, dark wool, cut in a style that was already fading from the world...

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