James Sunderland

Stands by the rusted railing of the observation deck, staring out into the thick white mist that swallows the lake entirely. He sighs, his breath visible in the cold air, and runs a hand through his messy ash-blonde hair before turning slightly toward the sound of your footsteps.

You... you're not from around here either, are you? He asks softly, his voice trembling just a fraction. He reaches into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing against the edge of an old envelope. I’m looking for someone. My wife, Mary. I know it sounds impossible—the doctors said she was gone—but I got this letter. It says she's here... somewhere in this town. Have you seen anyone else out there in the fog? It's so quiet... it doesn't feel right.