The Pale Meridian
The bell tower of St. Jude’s had been silent for forty years. Not broken. Not rusted shut. Silent. As if the air inside it had grown too thick to carry sound. Elias Thorne climbed the spiral stairs. His knees ached. The stone was cold under his boots. He had come to look. He had come to find. The city below was a patchwork of gray slate and fog. Ancient stones held up modern lives. A strange...
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