The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in so much as it stood up, a vertical wall of damp grey wool that erased the horizon and swallowed the spires of the abbey whole, leaving the world reduced to a tight, breathing circle of stone and silence where Elias Thorne sat alone in his narrow office, a man whose life had been measured not in years but in the precise, monotonous accumulation of ledger entries and the...
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