The Pale Meridian
The sulfur vial sat in my palm, heavy and cold, its glass etched with a faded label that read *Prunus Laurocerasus Treatment*. I turned it over, watching the fine white powder settle at the bottom, a ghost of the substance that was supposed to save the yew. Outside the church window, the wind tore at the bare branches, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. I am Elias Thorne,...
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