The Pale Meridian
The rain had ceased, but the air in the study remained thick, saturated with the scent of damp wool and old paper, a heavy atmosphere that pressed against the lungs of the room. I sat at the heavy oak desk, the wood darkened by decades of my father’s handling, and watched the dust motes drift in the single shaft of grey light that pierced the curtains. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of...
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