The Distant Threshold
The rust on the gate had turned the color of dried blood. Elias Thorne stood alone before it, the closure order trembling in his hand. Twenty years. He had spent two decades of his life staring at this iron barrier, watching the fog creep, and now he was fifty, his knees aching with a dull, persistent throb that the cold air only sharpened. He wanted to sign. He wanted to end it. The town...
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