The Pale Meridian
"You have brought it to the surface again." The voice was low, a rasp of dry leaves over stone. It came from the man sitting in the high-backed chair. He was old, his face a map of deep lines carved by wind and indifference. He did not look at me. He looked at the jar on the desk between us. I sat. The chair was hard. My knees ached. I had walked three miles to get here, up the hill, past the...
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