The Pale Meridian
"The meridian is on the north face again." Alice Cranfield wiped her hands on her apron, the cloth dark with the grease of the ship chandler’s last remaining inventory. She stood on the rooftop of the old warehouse, the heatwave pressing down on the coastal suburb like a wet wool blanket. It was 1994, and the air tasted of salt and diesel, a physical weight that made the lungs ache with every...
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