The Pale Meridian
The meridian ran through her grandfather's hands first. She learned that from the photographs—ink-dark, curling at the edges, stored in a shoebox beneath the attic stairs at the family house in Hampstead. His hands were mapped with veins like a cartographer's obsession, each blue tributary tracing a route back to some place she would never know. He had been a surveyor, once. Before the war took...
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