The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-21 14:33:37 -

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the inn, a rhythmic, hollow sound that seemed to hollow out the bones of the house. Margaret sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap. They were dry. Too dry. The skin peeled back from her knuckles in thin, white ribbons. She did not look at them. She looked at the road. The road was mud. The mud was black....

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