The Pale Meridian
The rain in Oakhaven does not fall so much as it hangs, a persistent grey mist that settles into the pores of the skin and the crevices of the pavement. You have been here for three years, long enough to know that the water tastes of iron and old leaves, but not long enough to feel the town’s pulse as your own. You are a guest, a transient shadow in the window of the bakery where you work, and...
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