The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-17 14:51:35 -

The orchid was dying, and you knew it in the marrow of your bones before the petals even curled. It sat on the mahogany desk in the center of the Grand Hall, a white phantom against the dark wood, its roots black and rotting in the soil. You touched a petal. It crumbled into dust, fine as ash, drifting down onto the polished floor where no one would sweep it. You are Eleanor, and you are the...

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