The Pale Mist
The feast was a ghost, a memory of roasting meats and clinking goblets that had faded thirty years ago, yet the house still hummed with the phantom energy of that final night when Thomas Ashworth laughed too loud and the shadows in the corner seemed to lean in closer, listening. You are Elara, forty-two, a widow whose face has begun to map the topography of the manor’s decay, and your hands are...
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