The Distant Whispers
The fog rolled in before the sun had fully cleared the ridge, a thick, grey shroud that smelled of wet chalk and rotting lilies. Elias stood at the edge of the property line, his boots sinking into the mud that had not been mud three days ago but was now a sucking, black mire. He was forty-two years old, a widower with a surveyor’s chain hanging heavy against his hip, and he had until Friday to...
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