The Pale Meridian
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a gray, suffocating mist that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into slick, treacherous mirrors. I stood on the porch of the Whitmore estate, my boots soaked through to the leather, watching the fog swallow the street where my wife, Sarah, had vanished three days prior. The house loomed before me, a monolith of dark stone and sharper...
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