The Pale Mist
The mist that clings to the hollows of the Appalachian foothills is not merely water vapor, but a living, pale exhalation that seems to breathe against the glass of my study window, a constant, silent witness to the three years I have spent trying to prove that Clara was innocent of the witchcraft the village accused her of. I am Elias, a botanist of no particular renown, and I have made this...
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