The Pale Meridian
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that erased the horizon and turned the world into a wet, breathing thing. I was standing in the center of the kitchen, holding the iron skillet, while the steam from the pot on the stove rose in thick, curling ribbons that looked like ghosts trying to escape the room. My hands were shaking, not from cold, but from the sheer,...
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