The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-19 05:25:58 -

The Pale Meridian

The rain had stopped, but the streets of Bristol still wept, a slow, grey exudation from the gutters that smelled of iron and old rot. I stood on the corner of Harbourside, watching the water ripple in the potholes, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat, my fingers drumming a frantic, silent rhythm against the wool. I was waiting for him. Or perhaps I was waiting for the end of the...

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