The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-21 10:14:33 -

The banquet hall smelled of ozone and wet wool. It was not a room. It was a feeling. Margaret sat at the head of the table. Her hands were shaking. She held the object. It was small. A stone. Or a seed. It pulsed against her palm. Warm. Alive. "You look well, Margaret," said Thomas. He smiled. His teeth were too white. "I am tired, Thomas," she said. "Tiredness is a privilege," he said. "It...

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