The Pale Shadows
The fog in Port Halloway does not roll in; it seeps up through the floorboards, cold and wet, smelling of brine and rot. You are Mara, thirty-two, and you are standing in the breakroom of St. Jude’s General, staring at the mirror above the sink. Your reflection is three seconds behind you. You raise your left hand. The image in the glass remains still, the ghost of a woman with a fractured jaw,...
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