The Distant Threshold
The letter from the Ministry of Internal Security arrived in a plain brown envelope, the paper thin and brittle as autumn leaves. It sat on the desk in the middle of the factory floor, a small, silent accusation amidst the roar of the looms. Elias Thorne picked it up. His hands were stained with indigo dye, the pigment worked deep into the whorls of his fingerprints, a map of his labor. He did...
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