The Wistful Show
The fog in Oakhaven does not behave like weather; it behaves like a predator, coiling around the ankles of the living and the dead with equal indifference, a thick, gray shroud that smells of wet rot and old iron. I am Elias Thorne, a border warden for the last three years, and I am sitting in the driver’s seat of a stalled truck, staring at the landslide that has swallowed the road and, with...
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