The Pale Mist
The leak had begun in the eaves, a slow, persistent weeping that turned the plaster of the old manor into a map of damp and decay. Elias Thorne, a mason of forty-two years with hands roughened by a decade of laying brick and stone, stood in the center of the great hall, watching the water trace a dark vein down the wall. He was not there for sentiment, though the house held the ghosts of his...
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