The Pale Meridian
The rain has been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turns the cobblestones of Ashford into a slick, reflective mirror of the weeping sky, and you are standing in the mud with your hands caked in the dark, wet earth of the municipal park, your fingernails broken and your uniform torn, screaming into the indifferent air at the men who are trying to pull you away from the...
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