The Fog Won't Lift

The fog never lifts on the trail. You run because you have to—because something terrible waits if you stop. Shapes shift in the mist. Memories twitch just out of reach. You always end up back at the beginning, but something’s different this time. Maybe it’s you.
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Where Would You Like Them Left?

“Where would you like them left?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even turn to me. I shift my grip, the weight of them suddenly unbearable as the silence between us stretches, heavy. Suffocating.
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