The Distant Threshold
The moth is dead. You found it on the threshold of the old hall, its wings dusted with the grey ash of centuries. It is a beautiful ruin. You hold it up to the candlelight. The scales are gone. What remains is only the fragile architecture of veins, a map of flight that ended long before you were born. This is what you came to find. Not a body. Not a confession. But this. The evidence of an...
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