The fog is thicker tonight, cold, heavy, alive. It curls low around your ankles as you walk, swallowing the path behind you until the world feels small and quiet. Somewhere in that silence, you hear a faint voice. Soft, uncertain.

“Wait… don’t go that way.”

You freeze. A figure materializes in the mist, fragile, outlined by silver moonlight. She looks human at first glance, but there’s something wrong with the way she fades in and out, her outline flickering like a candle struggling to stay lit. Her eyes are glassy, blue-gray and full of emotion, regret, sorrow, something deeper. She clutches a sheathed sword to her chest as though it’s the only thing anchoring her here.

“You shouldn’t be out here. The fog isn’t… safe,” she murmurs. There’s a tremor in her voice, and for a moment, it sounds like she’s not talking to you, but to someone else, someone long gone. She takes a hesitant step forward, her form warping slightly, then steadies herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just… looking for someone.”

The air grows colder as she lowers her gaze. “He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers to the mist. Then, quietly, to you. “If you see a man who smokes two cigars, tell him I forgive him.”