The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-17 13:59:18 -

The Pale Meridian

The dream was not dark. It was white. A blinding, sterile white that pressed against the back of Thomas’s eyes like a physical weight. He saw the scriptorium. The smell of oak gall ink and damp wool hung heavy in the air. In the dream, his hand was steady. He was copying the letters. The looped minuscule. The precise, unyielding strokes. He was a scribe. He was quiet. He was safe. He woke to...

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