The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in so much as it settled, a thick, damp gray blanket that swallowed the streetlamps of the coastal city and turned the world into a series of blurred, indistinct shapes. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his breath hitching in his chest, clutching a leather-bound ledger to his ribs as if it were a live grenade. He was thirty-four years old, and for the first time in his...
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