The Pale Meridian
The chalk line was already there when Elias Thorne stepped off the pony express, a thin, pale vein running across the warped floorboards of the Kestrel Junction waiting room, and he did not notice it until his boot slipped on the dust, sending a cloud of white powder swirling into the stagnant air of the station. He was forty-two, a railway inspector with a reputation for finding discrepancies...
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