The Pale Mist
The pen in your hand is cold, its metal cap biting into the palm of your right hand, a small, sharp pain that keeps you anchored to the present moment. You are Elara, thirty-two, a junior archivist at the St. Jude’s Municipal Library, and the Senior Curator position is yours to lose by Friday. The building breathes around you, a slow, rhythmic exhalation of pale mist that rolls across the...
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