The Pale Meridian
The stone did not breathe. It sat there, cold and absolute, in the center of the square. It was a pillar, ancient and pale, rising from the cracked cobblestones of Halloway’s Hollow. The villagers called it the Spine. It was not a monument. It was a cage. And Thomas had been walking around it for thirty years. Thomas was a man of books, though he owned few. He was the town’s archivist, a title...
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