The Pale Mist
Sylvio Soileau remembered the weight of the crate before he remembered the sound of the lock clicking shut, a heavy, rotting block of medicinal opium that had once been a promise of relief but was now only a burden of decay in the hands of the harbor guard. He stood in the watchtower, the pale mist of the Caribbean sugar island pressing against the glass like a living thing, eroding the wood of...
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