The Distant Threshold
The rain does not fall so much as it presses against the windowpanes, a wet, heavy hand trying to push its way into the warmth of the study, and you are sitting there with a book open on your knee that you are no longer reading, the words blurring into a meaningless gray sludge that matches the sky outside, because the coat is gone, the coat that your brother wore until the day he died, the...
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