The Pale Letter
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely obscure the streetlamps; it consumed them, a thick, grey slurry that tasted of iron and old coal, settling into the lungs of anyone foolish enough to breathe it deep. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and coughing blood into a handkerchief that was already dark with the evidence of his failing body, clutched a map to his chest as if it were a holy relic, its...
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