The Pale Meridian
Elias. The name was not shouted, nor was it called out with affection; it was merely the air in the house, the dust motes dancing in the thin light of the hallway, the way the floorboards groaned under the weight of his own history. I am writing this on a Tuesday, the date scrawled in the corner of the legal pad because the calendar on the wall has not been turned since the autumn, a small act...
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