The Distant Threshold
The hand of the crane groaned against the winch, a sound like a man clearing his throat in a silent room, and Elias Thorne watched the iron lattice of the St. Jude’s Bridge dissolve into rust in his mind’s eye, the corrosion spreading with the precise, terrible fidelity of a stress fracture he had mapped only that morning. He was thirty-two, a structural engineer by trade and a dreamer by...
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