The Pale Mist
The saw screamed through the heartwood of the oak, a shriek that cut deeper than the wind could manage, and Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the mud of the garden, his hand trembling as he watched the ancient trunk shudder under the assault. The city’s urban renewal crew, clad in high-visibility vests that mocked the dignity of the estate, had arrived before dawn, their machinery humming with a...
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