The Pale Meridian
The autumn of 1893 settled over Blackwood Ridge not with a season’s gradual turn, but with a suffocating weight that pressed the breath from my lungs before the first frost even touched the ground. I am Elias Thorne, a timber merchant of forty-two years, writing this from the damp, splintered office of a logging camp that feels less like a workplace and more like a tomb for men who have...
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