The Wistful Saga
The fog does not roll in so much as it rises, a cold, wet exhalation from the Blackwood Estate’s floor, swallowing the surveying stakes one by one until only the tripod of your theodolite remains visible, a lonely skeleton in the gray void. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and in three days you will retire from the Crown’s Land Commission after twenty years of mapping boundaries that...
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