The Pale Meridian
The boiler room smelled of sulfur and stale sweat. Margaret wiped her hands on a rag that was blacker than her skin. The pipes groaned. Steam hissed through the valves. She adjusted the pressure gauge. The needle trembled. It pointed to red. She looked up. The ceiling was high. Beams crossed like ribs. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light. She felt the heat. It pressed against her face. It...
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