The Pale Meridian
The frost on the windowpane did not merely coat the glass; it grew there, a crystalline architecture of ice ferns and jagged spikes that seemed to pulse with a cold, interior life. I watched it spread across the pane of my cell, a square of pale light in the endless dark of the monastery wall, and I felt the familiar, terrifying intimacy of its growth. It was not just ice. It was a mirror,...
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