The Distant Threshold
The rain does not wash the blood from the flagstone. It only makes it slick. You are walking through the hall, but you are not walking. You are being carried by a current of silence so thick it has weight. The air smells of wet wool and old copper. You are a soldier. You know this because you feel the phantom weight of a rifle in your hands that are empty. Your hands are empty. They have always...
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