The Distant Threshold
The orchid on the windowsill is dying, and you know it with a physical ache that sits in the base of your skull, a dull, throbbing pressure that tastes of copper and old dust, and you are standing in the center of the living room of the house in Harrow, your hands trembling so violently that you can barely hold the phone to your ear, the plastic casing slick with sweat, while the silence of the...
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