The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Arthur Penhaligon’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones, turning the familiar rhythm of his steps into a slow, grinding ache. He stood before the heavy oak doors of the Institute for Temporal Continuity, a building that seemed less constructed than carved out of the solid earth itself, its...
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