The Pale Meridian
March 14, 1924. The glass in the east corridor does not merely reflect; it records, a cold, bureaucratic ledger of our expirations that I have spent the last six months cataloging with a precision that borders on the devotional. I am thirty-two, and my hands, which have always been steady enough to bind the leather spines of the patient journals, now tremble with a fatigue that sleep does not...
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