The Distant Threshold
Mara woke with the taste of copper and wet moss on her tongue. The dream had been heavy. It had been full of roots. She lay still for a moment, listening to the rain tap against the windowpane of her office. It was a small room on the fourth floor of the municipal building. The walls were yellowed plaster. The desk was wood, scarred by decades of coffee rings. She looked at her hands. They were...
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