The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet with the smell of the river mud. It was addressed to the Keeper of the Threshold, a title that had not been used in the village of Oakhaven for three generations. The postman, a man named Silas whose knees clicked like dry twigs in the cold, dropped it into the iron box with a grunt. "For you, Margaret," he said, not looking up. "Weird old...
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