The Pale Meridian
The morning bell at the House of Mercy rang not with a clapper, but with a low, resonant thrum that seemed to rise from the floorboards themselves, vibrating through the soles of Maud’s shoes and settling into the marrow of her bones. She stood at the head of the long, stone corridor, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of pale light that cut...
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