The Pale Mist
The dampness in the sub-basement of the National Archive did not smell of mildew or old paper, but of ozone and cold iron, a scent that had been growing thicker since the first frost of autumn. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood warped and dark beneath his hands, and stared at the object before him: a glass sphere the size of a fist, filled with a swirling, opaque white substance that moved...
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