The Distant Threshold
You leave the house on a Tuesday, the day the fog usually lifts but does not today. It clings to the eaves of the blacksmith’s forge, a thick, gray wool that smothers the sound of the anvil. You are not a blacksmith. You are a merchant of words, a man who sells the written word to those who can no longer read it for themselves. Your brother, Silas, has been dying for three years, and you have...
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