There was always fog. Morning, noon, and night. Thick and cloying; it muted sounds, made of speech a buzz, coated the tongue, and reduced all colors to shades of grey. Summer, winter, no season seemed to exist under the fog. He thought he recalled a time, perhaps when he was still a very young child, when the sun had shone freely on the city. It was now little more than a vague, bright disc that did nothing to brighten the fog or to dry the droplets that condensed on his beard. The fog even made its way indoors. It was inescapable, and had been for years. He was used to it now, and he assumed that everyone else was, too.
