Jul 10, 2026 · 29 min · 6 segments
Trisha Blackburn must uncover the secrets of a sinister cult in order to rediscover the secrets of her history. Script: https://www.quietplease.org/awakening/scripts.php?script=27 Website…
The most striking feature was the fog.
Not the fog itself, but the unnaturalness of where it went.
Standing on the shore, I could see the ocean clear and sunny on one side and the fog inland on the other side.
The opposite of what I'd expect.
Another thing that struck me as unnatural was the lack of boats in the harbor.
None.
A fully maintained harbor.
No boats.
I couldn't see any boats on the ocean either.
I walked away from the shore, and as the fog grew around me, the sand turned into a cobblestone street.
Soon I saw horse-drawn carriages plodding to and fro, their occupants silent, only the clopping of hooves audible through the fog.
19th century, maybe.
Could the 19th century be the true reality? But how could people so primitive, people with horse-drawn carriages, have designed and fed me a fake life so much more advanced than theirs? And how could my guardian angel be one of these silent figures and carriages? She wasn't anything like them.
Their skin appeared clammy and yellowish.
They hunched and scurried more like insects than humans.
Their hollow eyes unnerved me, and almost all of them ignored me as if I weren't there.
Until I stumbled onto an exception.
You're not from around here,
are you?
No, I'm a visitor.
Be careful.
This isn't a safe place for outsiders.
Are you
The most striking feature was the fog.
Not the fog itself, but the unnaturalness of where it went.
Standing on the shore, I could see the ocean clear and sunny on one side and the fog inland on the other side.
The opposite of what I'd expect.
Another thing that struck me as unnatural was the lack of boats in the harbor.
None.
A fully maintained harbor.
No boats.
I couldn't see any boats on the ocean either.
I walked away from the shore, and as the fog grew around me, the sand turned into a cobblestone street.
Soon I saw horse-drawn carriages plodding to and fro, their occupants silent, only the clopping of hooves audible through the fog.
19th century, maybe.
Could the 19th century be the true reality? But how could people so primitive, people with horse-drawn carriages, have designed and fed me a fake life so much more advanced than theirs? And how could my guardian angel be one of these silent figures and carriages? She wasn't anything like them.
Their skin appeared clammy and yellowish.
They hunched and scurried more like insects than humans.
Their hollow eyes unnerved me, and almost all of them ignored me as if I weren't there.
Until I stumbled onto an exception.
You're not from around here,
are you?
No, I'm a visitor.
Be careful.
This isn't a safe place for outsiders.
Are you
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