The Distant Threshold
The bell above the door did not ring. It hung there, silent, a brass tongue frozen in a throat of silence. I stood at the counter of the shop, my hands resting on the polished wood. The grain was dark, mahogany, imported from a ship that had long since rotted in the bottom of the Atlantic. It was beautiful. It was heavy. It was mine. The air in the shop was thick. Dust motes danced in the...
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