The Distant Threshold
The ink was fading. That was the first thing Silas noticed, though he had not looked at the page directly. It was a peripheral truth, a dimming of the world’s edges, which he accepted with the same resigned stillness he brought to his chronic cough. He sat in his study, a room that had once been a chapel annex in the old manor house, now reduced to a damp, cold box of stone and oak. The air...
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