The Distant Joke
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in; it sits, a heavy, wet wool blanket that presses against the glass of your office window, blurring the world into a gray smear of indistinguishable shapes. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a retired structural engineer who has not slept more than four hours a night in three years, and you are currently staring at a blueprint that is bleeding ink, the black...
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