The Faded Quadrant
The tremor started in the left hand, a fine, high-frequency vibration that made the tip of my pencil skate across the blueprints like a needle on a cracked record. I was thirty-four years old, and I had spent the last decade ensuring that the structures of Harrow’s Point stood firm against the Atlantic’s relentless assault, yet my own body was beginning to betray the basic laws of load and...
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