The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-18 15:54:17 -

The coat is red. Not crimson. Not scarlet. A dull, arterial red. Like dried blood on a stone. You wear it. You have worn it for forty years. It is wool. Heavy. It smells of dust and lavender. You are in the palace. Or what passes for one now. The halls are long. The floors are marble. Cold. You walk. Your shoes click. Clack. Clack. You are the Archivist. You are old. Your hands shake. The coat...

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