The Pale Meridian
The fog in the valley of Oakhaven does not merely obscure; it speaks, a low, sibilant chorus that carries the names of those who have slipped into the earth, and I have spent twenty years learning to tune my ears to its specific, mournful cadence until the distinction between the wind and the dead became a matter of professional habit rather than spiritual terror. My name is Elias Thorne, and I...
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