The Pale Meridian
The frost had settled on the window glass in intricate, fern-like fractals, a delicate lattice that Elias Whitmore watched with the detached precision of a man cataloging his own decay. He was a surveyor, a man of lines and angles, who believed that the world could be reduced to coordinates, that if one could just find the right datum point, the chaos of existence would snap into order. But the...
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