The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-21 00:44:19 -

The Pale Meridian

The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray drizzle that turned the manicured lawns of the Whitmore Estate into a slurry of mud and decay. Margaret Whitmore stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the east wing, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the wet glass. She was seventy-two, a woman whose bones had settled into a permanent, stoic alignment, much like the architecture of...

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