The Distant Threshold
In the dream, the ink was not black but a bruised violet, the color of a plum left too long in the fruit bowl, and it bled through the paper not as a stain but as a living thing, a worm that writhed and tasted the air with a tongue of wet soot. Marcus Thorne woke with the taste of iron on his tongue and the sensation that his hands were still stained, though when he lifted them from the duvet...
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