The Wistful Show
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in from the river; it seeps up from the cracks in the cobblestones, a white, silent tide that swallows the world whole. You know this because you have watched it for ten years, standing on the roof of the textile mill with your lantern, waiting for it to reveal the souls of the men below. The rule is simple, though few in the town believe it anymore: the fog...
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