The Pale Meridian
The fog that rolled in off the River Calder did not merely obscure the world; it consumed it, a thick, grey wool drawn tight over the faces of the men who worked the sorting floor of the Ashworth & Sons Textile Mill. For forty years, Elias Thorne had stood at his station, his fingers blackened by ink and coal dust, his spine curved like a question mark that had forgotten its answer. He was a...
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