The Distant Threshold
The house breathes. You can hear it. It is a wet, rattling sound. Like old pipes. Like lungs clearing. You are standing in the kitchen. Your hands are stained. You are a clockmaker. You fix time for others. But you do not know your own. The clock on the wall ticks. It is loud. It is wrong. It beats faster than a heart should. Eleanor is at the table. She is eating soup. The steam rises. It...
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