"The Man in the Mist"

 The world was hushed beneath a veil of fog, thick and silver, like a dream that hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to be remembered.

The cold wrapped itself around the sleeping town, soft but sharp, clinging to rooftops and bare trees. No cars. No voices. Not even the distant bark of a dog. Just the faint, fading song of birds—thin threads of sound unraveling into the stillness.

And then he appeared.

A tall figure, shoulders cloaked in a long coat, hat pulled low over his eyes. His footsteps were nearly silent on the damp cobblestone, each one swallowed quickly by the mist behind him. He moved like he belonged to the morning, like he had stepped out of it rather than into it.

In his gloved hand, he carried something small—round, wrapped in worn leather. His breath came in steady clouds, barely rising before disappearing. The birdsong faltered for a moment, as if even they noticed him passing.

He didn’t look left or right, didn’t seem in a hurry, but every step had purpose. The kind that makes you wonder if he's going somewhere important… or if he's already been.

As he passed beneath a crooked lamppost, the fog shifted just enough to catch a glimpse of his face—lined with time, eyes sharp as winter stars. And just like that, he vanished down the next street, swallowed whole by the morning.

No name. No sound. Just a memory you weren’t sure you’d imagined.

Only the birds remained, whispering softly to the fog.

Will with the tell, words from a spell.