The Distant Threshold
The frost took the wheat before the plow could. It was a thin, white lie. It looked like snow, but it burned. I stood at the edge of the field, watching the stalks curl and blacken. The air was still. Too still. My brother, Elias, lay in the barn. He had been burning for three days. Not with fever, though his skin was hot as brick. He burned with the truth. I am a seeker. I have always been a...
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