The Pale Meridian
The stone was wrong. Elias knew it the moment the chisel bit into the pale granite, a sound too sharp, too clean, for a rock that had lain in the quarry bed for centuries. It was a slab of white quartzite, veined with a dark, jagged fracture that ran diagonally across its face like a scar. He had chosen it himself, dragging it from the riverbank where the autumn floods had exposed the bedrock....
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