The Distant Threshold
The ink was bleeding again, a slow, viscous weep of black that seeped through the perforated lead lining of the case and stained the white cotton gloves Elias Thorne wore with a stain that looked too much like a bruise. He sat in the dim, dust-choked silence of the Silent Ward, the air thick with the smell of ozone and old paper, his eyes straining against the fading light of the late afternoon...
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