The Wistful Show
The fog in Oakhaven does not merely obscure the streetlamps; it swallows them, a thick, grey wool that presses against the glass of my office window with a persistence that feels less like weather and more like a physical hand trying to force its way in. I am Elias Thorne, an archivist of forty-two years, and my hands tremble as I sign the final petition, the ink bleeding into the paper not...
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