The Pale Mist

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2026-08-24 08:48:21 -

The Pale Mist

The woolen shawl on your shoulders weighs three pounds, yet it feels like a yoke of iron as you count the stitches in the hem. One, two, three. You do not look up from the needle. The gray fog presses against the window of the infirmary, not like weather, but like a living thing testing the seal of the glass. It has been forty days since the wasting plague took hold of Julian, and the winter...

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