The Pale Meridian
The trowel scraped against the rusted flange, leaving a thin, white streak in the dark oxide. Elias Thorne watched the metal weep a bead of moisture, the light from the high windows catching the droplet as it hung, trembling, before falling onto the concrete below. He was thirty-four, and his hands shook with a fatigue that sleep no longer touched. The beam, a W14x90 structural section, sat...
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