The Pale Meridian
The letter lay on the bare floorboards, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the attic. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the paper gritty and thin, while his right hand clutched a chipped ceramic tile, a fragment of a meridian line painted in faded blue. He was fifty-two, a retired mason whose hands had once laid brick with a precision that now betrayed him in tremors. The tile...
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