The Pale Meridian
The fog that rolled off the North Sea did not merely obscure the horizon; it erased it. It was a white, heavy wall that swallowed the jagged cliffs of Whitby and the crumbling lighthouse, reducing the world to a radius of thirty feet around Thomas Bradshaw. He stood on the shingle beach, his boots sinking into the wet, grey grit, holding the brass theodolite with hands that trembled not from...
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