The Distant Threshold
The bell rings. It is a low sound. Deep. Like a stone dropped in a well. You are twelve. You are leaving. Your father stands by the door. He does not hug you. He holds a lantern. The glass is cracked. The flame shakes. "Go," he says. One word. You go. The road is grey. The sky is grey. The world is grey. You carry a box. It is small. Wooden. Bound in iron. Inside is a mirror. Not glass. Silver....
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