The Distant Threshold
The corridor of the Ministry of Records did not behave according to the laws of Euclidean geometry, a fact that Elias Thorne had noted in his field journal three times before his pen stopped moving, the ink blurring into a smear of black nothingness as the walls began to ripple like liquid mercury. He was forty-five years old, an archivist of modest renown and rigid habit, and he had traveled...
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