The Pale Meridian
The smell hits you first, a thick, cloying mixture of damp rot and stale tobacco that clings to the back of the throat, followed by the sight of the man standing in the doorway, his face a mask of bureaucratic indifference, calling out your name with the flat, dead tone of a clerk reciting a date. "Thorne," he says, and the word hangs in the cold air of the basement archive, heavy as a stone...
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