The Pale Mist
The note was written in Elias’s own hand, though he did not remember writing it. It sat on the kitchen table, a scrap of butcher paper stained with grey dust. It read: *The quarry is closed. Do not go.* He folded it into a square and dropped it into the tin of nails. The morning light in Oakhaven was thin and sick, filtering through the windowpane in pale, bruised strips. It hit the linoleum...
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