The Pale Meridian
The mist clings to the valley floor like a shroud. You walk alone. The path is narrow, worn by centuries of feet that no longer live. You carry the stone. It is heavy. Not in weight, but in silence. It is a smooth, grey slab, unmarked. It rests in your palm, cold against the skin. You have carried it for three days. Your shoulder aches. Your legs burn. But you do not stop. To stop is to drop....
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