The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the clay outside the window into a thick, sucking mire that mirrored the grayness of the cell. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat on the edge of the cot, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the single object resting on the concrete floor between his feet. It was a woolen scarf, knitted in a pattern of tight, rhythmic stitches, dyed a deep, bruised...
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