The Pale Bridge
The fog in Oren does not lift; it thickens, a woolen blanket suffocating the valley floor. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and I am no longer a border patrol officer. I am a man who shot a stranger on the Pale Bridge and watched him dissolve into the mist, leaving only a cold, wet silence in his wake. The town calls me a monster. The elders call me a necessary error. I call myself a...
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