The Pale Meridian
You stand in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old stone, and you tell your brother that the glass is broken, that the long pane in the window that faces the north is cracked, spiderwebbed from center to edge, and he looks at you with a face so pale it seems to belong to someone else, someone who has been buried for a century and has only just begun to breathe, and he...
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