The Distant Threshold
Edmund Ashworth-Cross stood at the edge of the salt marshes and watched the tide come in, slow as a confession, swallowing the last remnants of daylight. He had come to the Somerset coast because the solicitor's letter had mentioned something about "a platform you may wish to see," but the words felt inadequate—like naming a cathedral by its address. He was forty-three, a senior actuary at a...
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