The Pale Meridian
The watch is stopped at 3:14. You hold it in your left hand, the metal cold against your palm, the glass face cracked down the center like a frozen lake. It belongs to David. You have worn it for six years, ever since the funeral home handed you the box of his effects, the clothes, the books, the debt. The debt is the heavy thing. It sits in your chest, a stone you swallow every morning before...
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