The Pale Meridian
The steam from the radiator hissed in a low, continuous whine that seemed to vibrate through the bones of the station, a sound that Elias Thorne had grown so accustomed to over the last twenty-eight years that it had become indistinguishable from the rhythm of his own failing heart. He stood before the single, grime-streaked windowpane of the remote mountain outpost, watching the frost creep...
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