The Pale Meridian
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the Whitmore Institute, a rhythmic drumming that Elias Thorne had long since ceased to hear. He sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows, and stared at the glass of water before him. In the reflection, his own face looked back, pale and drawn, the lines around his mouth deepened by a week of sleepless nights. But the...
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