The Distant Affair
October 14. I counted the hours in the shift log, scratching the graphite until the paper tore. Three days. That is how long the fog has held the river mouth. It is not a weather event; it is a wall. I want to clear my name, a want that tastes like copper in the back of my throat. The opposing force is the mist itself, a white barrier that erases footprints and swallows sound. It is not a...
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