The Pale Meridian
The road out of Harrowgate was not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, a pale meridian of chalk and dust that stretched endlessly toward the horizon where the sky bled into a bruised purple. You walked it with the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots that had not felt fresh leather in years, your hands deep in the pockets of a coat that smelled of damp wool and old sweat. There was no one to walk...
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