The Pale Meridian
Which of us is the debtor? Rania Mansour did not answer the question, nor did she look up from the ledger, her fingers tracing the damp, shifting ink that pulsed against the parchment like a living vein. The archive was silent save for the low, rhythmic hum of the lathe working in the next room, a sound that had become the heartbeat of her days since her father’s death. She was thirty-two, a...
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