The Distant Threshold
The dream was a house of glass, transparent and brittle, standing in a field of white ash. You stood at the center of the kitchen, holding a heavy, iron key that felt warm to the touch, as if it had been sleeping in a pocket for decades. The walls were not walls but mirrors, and in every reflection, you saw yourself not as you were, but as you had been years ago, young and terrified, your face...
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