The Pale Mist
The mist is thick tonight, Mayor, thick enough to choke a man, and you’re sitting there pretending you don’t see it. October 14, 2024. The harvest festival at the Old Mill was a spectacle of rot and rust, the kind of event where the air smells of damp wool, stale beer, and the metallic tang of old blood. I stood by the stage, watching the Mayor, Halloway, shake hands with the farmers, his smile...
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