The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey veil that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of concrete and glass. Elias Vane sat in his office on the fourteenth floor of the Sterling Building, staring not at the case file spread before him, but at the single, withered fern placed in a ceramic pot on the windowsill. The plant was a relic from his childhood, a...
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