The Distant Threshold
The coat hung on the hook by the door, a heavy wool thing the color of dried blood, and it was the only thing in the room that did not seem to be screaming, though the walls were peeling and the radiator clanked like a dying man’s heartbeat and the air smelled of stale coffee and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that had no business being in a third-floor walk-up in the Bronx. I have been here...
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