The fog hung there. Thick and heavy.
For 14 days the fog has sat there, a fat presence outside the widows. Oppressive. Smothering.
When it had first came in, people tried to go on with their days as normal. Everyone took it as a bit of a game, trying to navigate around the town in the opaque light, but recently people had begun to stay inside. We began to talk less. Sing less. Laugh less. The fog stole these things from us.The dense cloud soaked it up and responded with silence. A dense silence that it pressed upon you. Forceful.
A heaviness has settled upon the town.
I write this now sitting in my study, looking out of the window at the flat sheet of grey white. I know this is silliness but I have begun to be afraid. I have heard men talk of hearing sounds come from deep in the fog, or seen dense shapes shifting through it. I fear that soon this house too will fill with dense white, becoming the very air that I breathe.
White tendrils have begun to creep in around the edge of the frame. We don’t have much time.