The Pale Fracture
The brass astrolabe sat upon the workbench, its intricate gears frozen in a posture of perpetual, silent waiting, reflecting the gray, soot-stained light of the window where the rain lashed against the glass like a thousand tiny, desperate fingers. I was nine years old, a time when the world was not yet fully mapped in my mind, but the cold was mapped, and the hunger, and the terrible, heavy...
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