The Distant Threshold
The basement of the National Records Center was a tomb of dust and silence, a windowless purgatory where the air hung heavy with the scent of decaying paper and cold concrete, and Elias Thorne sat on a metal stool, his fifty-four-year-old body rigid with a tension that seemed to pull at the very marrow of his bones. He clutched a ledger to his chest, its cover warped by a water stain that had...
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