The Pale Meridian
The rain hits the glass. It is cold. It is wet. You stand in the corridor. The floor is marble. It is white. It is polished. You feel the chill. It bites your skin. You are a soldier. You are here. The air smells of dust. It smells of old paper. It smells of decay. You look at the door. It is heavy. It is oak. You knock. No one answers. You wait. The silence is loud. It roars in your ears. You...
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