The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-20 11:43:13 -

"You are cold." Margaret stood in the hallway. The air smelled of wet wool and old dust. She held a shawl in her hands. It was grey. It was heavy. It had been her mother’s. Now it was hers. Now it was no one’s. Thomas sat on the chair by the fire. He did not look up. His head was bowed. His hands were still. They were white. They were shaking. "I am cold," he said. His voice was a whisper. It...

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