The Distant Threshold
The letter lay on the desk, the paper yellowed and brittle, smelling of damp earth and old iron. I picked it up, my fingers trembling against the rough texture, and read the date scrawled in the corner: today. Julian had died three years ago, yet the ink was wet, glistening like a tear on the skin of the page. I had spent the last month cataloging his final correspondence, desperate to secure...
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