At dusk, the abandoned industrial area along the coast of Wudu was shrouded in a grayish-purple glow.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, but the sky was not yet completely dark.
The people of Wudu referred to this time of day as "gray dusk."
This ambiguous moment between day and night was also when most of the city's inhabitants hurried home before night fully descended.
But for the Spirit Communicator Association, gray dusk marked the beginning of work.
Harding stood at the entrance of an abandoned factory, his hands tucked into the pockets of his deep blue uniform.
His gaze swept across a clearing piled with rusted steel toward the distant, misty sea.
No ships dotted the water, only a thick fog rolling slowly, like the breath of some enormous creature.
He was forty-seven this year and had been with the association for over twenty years.
After retiring from field operations, he thought he'd never lead such missions again.
But this situation was different.
