The Pale Meridian
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, grey mist that clung to the slate roofs of Harrowgate and soaked into the bones of the people who walked its narrow, cobbled streets, blurring the line between the wet pavement and the dry air in a way that made the world feel less solid, less certain, as if reality itself were slowly dissolving under the weight of the industrial hum...
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