The Pale Meridian
I woke with the taste of copper and wet earth on my tongue, a metallic tang that had nothing to do with the coffee I had drunk an hour ago, but everything to do with the rotting cellar floor where I had spent the night listening to the rain tap against the windowpane like a persistent, skeletal finger demanding entry. The light in my study was pale, a washed-out gray that seemed to leach the...
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