The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it was forced down, a grey curtain drawn tight against the iron windows of the station. I stood on the platform, my boots sinking into the wet gravel, watching the 8:15 from Bristol disappear into the mist. The cold was a physical weight, pressing against my ribs, a familiar pressure that I had learned to mistake for dignity. I am Elias Thorne. I work for the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews