The Village That Heard Footsteps Across the Fog
On certain fog-wet nights, footsteps move house to house along our lane. No one is there. By morning, one muddy print waits at every door.
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The Grey Figure on the Moor Road
After midnight on a fog-choked moor road, the same grey figure kept appearing ahead of me. I never passed anyone. In town, the window showed I hadn’t been alone.
