The Faded Quadrant
You count the hours in the dark, not to mark their passage, but to weigh the cold that settles in your bones, a cold so profound it feels less like a temperature and more like a substance, a heavy, wet silt filling the cracks of your skin. The obsidian quadrant rests in your left hand, its fractured edge biting into the calluses of your palm, a familiar pain that anchors you to the reality of...
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