The Pale Meridian
The bell rang. It did not chime. It screamed. A low, bruised sound that vibrated in the teeth. I was counting sheep. Or perhaps stones. It is hard to tell in the dark. My fingers were numb. The wool was wet. It clung to my skin like a second, colder self. "You are late," said the voice. It was not a question. It was a fact. As true as the cold. "I am here," I whispered. My name is Elara. I do...
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