The Pale Mist
The fog was thick. It smelled of wet iron and old bones. It pressed against the windows of the apartment. It pressed against the door. It pressed against the skin. Mara stood by the sink. She held a ceramic mug. It was chipped. The chip was on the rim. She had bought it at a flea market. It was white. It was simple. It was hers. She stared at the mug. Her hand shook. The coffee inside sloshed....
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