The Distant Threshold
Maren sat on the porch step. The wood was cold. Her hands were still. She looked at the road. The road was empty. The mist came in from the lake. It touched her shoes. She did not move. "You're late," said a voice. Maren turned. Thomas stood in the yard. He wore a grey coat. The coat was old. It was frayed at the cuffs. He looked at her. He did not smile. "I am not late," Maren said. "I am...
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