The Pale Meridian
The smell of rotting apples had settled into the walls of the Blackwood estate, a sour, sweet stench that clung to the wool of my father’s coat and seeped into the floorboards of the library. It was October, or perhaps November. The seasons had lost their distinct edges, blurred by the long, gray days that stretched out like taffy. I was twelve years old, a boy who had learned to count the...
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