The Distant Threshold
The ink was still wet on the form when the first crack appeared in the glass of the office window, a jagged spiderweb that seemed to pulse with a faint, arterial light. Margaret sat behind the desk, her hands flat on the mahogany surface, watching the fracture spread with the detached curiosity of a woman observing a storm through a porthole. The air in the room tasted of ozone and old paper, a...
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