The Pale Meridian
The building did not smell of paper or coffee, as one might expect of a place where people sat for nine hours a day pretending to think, but of wet wool and old fear, a scent that had seeped into the plaster over decades and refused to be scrubbed out by any amount of industrial cleaner or aggressive ventilation, sitting in the back corner of the open-plan office where the light from the high...
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