The Distant Threshold
The house stood against the sky like a broken tooth. It was the only structure on the hill, a square block of slate and timber that had survived the fire of 1892 and the rot of the last thirty years. Elias Thorne sat on the porch steps, his hands wrapped around a cup of cold coffee. The steam had long since vanished, but he held the mug anyway. It was a warm weight. A small, manageable thing in...
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