The Pale Mist

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 22:16:27 -

The Pale Mist

The shop smelled of sawdust and stale tobacco. It was a scent that had seeped into the grain of the oak over forty years. I stood behind the counter, my hands resting on the wood. They were steady hands. They had to be. I was a joiner. I built things that lasted. That was the promise I made to the customers who walked in with their broken chairs and warped doors. I fixed them. I made them whole...

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