The Distant Threshold

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 20:55:18 -

The rain in Oakhaven does not fall; it hangs, a grey, suffocating curtain that smells of wet wool and old stone. I remember the night the uniform finally broke, not when the water seeped through the seams, but when the weight of it became so heavy that I could no longer lift my arms to keep them from dragging in the mud. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, but time had begun to stretch...

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