The Wistful Campus
The fog in Oakhaven does not merely obscure; it consumes. It eats sound, swallowing the crash of a branch or the cry of a gull before the echo can form, leaving the air thick with a silence that feels like pressure against the eardrums. You are twelve years old, and you know the rule, though no one has written it down. The dead speak only in whispers here, and if you ignore them, the whispers...
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