The Pale Mist
The letter lay on the wet stone bench, its edges soft and frayed from the damp air, bearing the heavy seal of the Halloway Estate. Elias Thorne did not open it immediately; instead, he watched the pale fog curl around the base of the ancient oak, a thick, viscous wall that seemed to breathe with a slow, rhythmic pulse. He was forty years old, a geologist by training and a madman by reputation,...
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