The Pale Meridian
The rain did not fall; it invaded. It seeped through the warped shingles of the Ashworth estate, a persistent, gray dampness that had colonized the walls and the breath of the household for three years. Elias stood in the center of the parlor, his bare feet cold against the Persian rug, watching the water bead on the ceiling and trace the veins of the plaster. He was a man composed of rigid...
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