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A foggy, eerie village square with a stone well, old cottages, a collapsed market stall, and muddy footprints.

A foggy, eerie village square with a stone well, old cottages, a collapsed market stall, and muddy footprints.

Thorncross huddles beneath a low blanket of rolling grey fog, the kind that clings to rooftops and coils around fence posts like grasping fingers. Most of the cottages sag inward, their shutters hanging loose, paint peeled away by years of damp wind and neglect. Moss crawls up the stone foundations, and small gardens sit abandoned, their soil churned and overgrown. The village square is eerily open. A cracked well stands at its center, its rope frayed and its bucket missing. A toppled market stall lies half-collapsed near the road, its faded canopy fluttering weakly whenever the breeze pushes through the fog. No voices carry through the streets. No doors open. Only the faint, distant sound of a child’s cry drifts through the mist—thin, uncertain, and impossible to place. Every footprint in the muddy paths around the square looks recent… and yet many of them simply stop. Mehr sehen