The Pale Shadows
The fog did not roll in; it seeped, a cold, grey fluid that filled the lungs before it filled the eyes. You were fifty years old, Elias Thorne, and your knees screamed a language older than English as you dragged your boots through the sludge of the marshland. The damp of the industrial coast had settled into your marrow over thirty years of service, turning your joints into rusted hinges that...
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