The Distant Threshold
You have kept the glass shard in your pocket for thirty years, pressing it against the skin of your thigh until the fabric wore thin and the cold edge of the fragment bled a faint, rust-colored stain into the cotton, a private wound you have carried across the Atlantic, through the smog of the city that swallowed you whole, where the air tastes of iron and old rain and the neon lights buzz with...
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