The Distant Threshold
The banquet hall of the Meridian Institute for Cognitive Restoration smelled of stale yeast and expensive perfume, a cloying mixture that hung in the air like a fog that refused to settle. Margaret Holloway sat at the periphery of the long oak table, her fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of water that had long since lost its chill, her knuckles white against the clear glass. The...
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