The Distant Threshold
The crack in the obsidian mirror had widened by a fraction of an inch since morning, a jagged white vein pulsing against the dark glass. I held it in my hands, the stone cold as river ice, and watched the reflection of the study distort, the bookshelves bowing inward as if under the weight of a coming storm. It was the solstice week, and the house groaned in the wind, a sound like old bones...
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