The Distant Threshold
The scratch was two inches long, a pale wound in the varnish that ran from the left corner of the blotter to the center of the oak surface, and Elias Thorne ran his thumb over the groove until the wood grain felt like a broken bone under his skin. He had counted the days since he last polished this desk, forty-three years and two months of service to the County Constabulary, a tenure measured...
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