The Faded Guest
The mist rolled off the moor like a slow, grey tide, swallowing the edges of the world. Thomas stood at the edge of the bracken, his boots sinking into the wet earth. He was nine years old, small for his age, with eyes that had seen too much for a boy of his years. The air smelled of iron and rot. It smelled of the factory smoke that clung to the valley floor, a heavy, suffocating shroud that...
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