The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a persistent, grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the manor and seeped into the marrow of the house, a dampness that had grown over centuries until it became indistinguishable from the fabric of the building itself, settling into the floorboards and the heavy velvet drapes where Marguerite stood with her back to the door, her hands...
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