The Pale Shadows

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2026-08-21 11:15:54 -

The Pale Shadows

The fog rolled in from the moor not as a wall of white, but as a living, breathing thing, thick and cold and smelling faintly of wet wool and old iron. I was twelve, and I believed with the absolute, unshakeable certainty of a child that the world was a machine that could be understood if you only found the right lever to pull. I was walking behind the mill, where the air tasted of coal dust...

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