The Pale Tale
The mist sat heavy on the fields. It did not rise. It stayed. It pressed against the glass of the window. It was gray. It was cold. It was alive. Thomas stood alone in the kitchen. The clock ticked. The hands moved. They did not care about the time. They only moved. Thomas watched the steam from his tea. It curled. It vanished. He was a man of order. He wore his uniform. The buttons were...
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