The Pale Meridian
You stand in the kitchen, holding a knife that does not cut, and you tell him that the wall is thin. You say that you can hear the pipes groaning in the dark, a sound like old men clearing their throats before a long sleep. He does not look up from the map spread across the table. The map is of the city, but it is not a map of streets; it is a map of lines, of red and black threads woven so...
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