The Distant Threshold
The train stops. You step off. The air is thick. It smells of coal dust and wet wool. You are in Ashworth. Or what is left of it. The house looms. It is black against the gray sky. You have been away for three years. Three years in the cell. Three years counting bricks. Three years waiting for the letter that never came. You walk toward the door. Your feet do not feel real. The ground is soft....
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