The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the village of Oakhaven into a collection of damp, shivering shadows, and it was within the suffocating, timber-framed walls of the constable’s cottage that Thomas Whitmore sat, the silence of the room pressing against his eardrums like a physical weight, heavier than the stone walls that enclosed them, heavier than...
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