Curses. Smoke can't be seen in fog. You won't be able to see anything today. Neither will they. Even the grasses are dying, unable to absorb the water you so carefully fed them. Staring distastefully at the decaying carnations, you light another cigarette. The moisture immediately smothers it, and a thin trail of black smoke rises into the air like a black balloon that someone's child let go of. Never mind. Boots shattering the puddles, you step forward to the gate. It's unlocked. Good. Your gaze moves to the horizon out of habit. You needn't have bothered, fog obscures everything. They probably don't want to see you. Don't go looking for them. And neither will they.
woah this is tuff