The Pale Meridian
The air in the Headmaster’s office smelled of stale tobacco and varnish. Elias stood before the massive oak desk, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the silence. He was twelve, small for his age, with hands that had already learned the roughness of soil. Across the desk sat Mr. Thorne, a man whose face seemed carved from the same granite as the schoolhouse walls....
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