The Pale Meridian
The steam from the boiler room curls into the freezing air, a ghost that refuses to dissipate, wrapping around your ankles like the cold hands of the dead. You stand on the platform of the Kestrel Line, the iron grating biting into your shoes, and you watch the soot settle on your white shirt, a slow accumulation of sin that mirrors the dust gathering on the shelves of the university library...
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