The Distant Threshold
You wake up with the taste of iron on your tongue. The room is dark. Not the dark of night, but the thick, velvet dark of a closed eye. You blink. The darkness does not lift. It thickens. You are in the bedroom. You know this. You know the creak of the floorboard beneath your left heel. You know the draft from the window seal. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are forty years old. You are a ghost,...
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