The Pale Mist
The fog sits on the valley. It does not lift. You know this. You have always known this. You are the one who watches it. You are the one who feeds it. It is a cold morning. The mist is thick. It smells of wet stone and old ash. You stand by the window. You watch the village below. The houses are dark. The chimneys are cold. The people are gone. Or they are hiding. You do not know which. You do...
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