The Pale Meridian
The frost does not touch the glass. It touches you. You feel it first in the knuckles, a sharp, biting cold that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you are the only man in the city who can see the white webbing that spreads from your hands into the air. You want to fix the Great Meridian Clock. You need to fix it before the debt...
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