The Pale Meridian
The note was tucked under the heavy oak door of your quarters, the paper damp with the morning mist that clings to Oakhaven like a shroud. You picked it up, your fingers stiff from the cold, and read the scrawl in your own handwriting, a jagged script that felt alien on the page: The pale meridian is closing. You had been a border warden for six years, long enough to know that the town’s fog...
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