The Distant Threshold

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 14:15:48 -

She woke to the sound of falling leaves. Not wind. Not rain. Just the dry, papery rustle of death accumulating on the threshold. Margaret Holloway sat up. The bed was cold. The air in the room tasted of iron and old paper. She looked at the window. The glass was black. Outside, the garden was gone. In its place stood a wall of grey mist. It swirled low, touching the stones. The mist was thick....

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