The Distant Threshold
"You have to eat, Thomas. The body is a machine, and you are letting it rust." I looked up from the cold iron of the radiator, my breath misting in the damp air of the workshop, and watched Eleanor place the bowl on the workbench. It was a simple thing, chipped porcelain holding a mound of porridge that had begun to congeal into a grey, paste-like substance. The steam had long since vanished,...
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