The Distant Threshold
I was tracing the grain of the oak with my thumbnail when the dream dissolved, leaving only the smell of wet plaster and old iron in the air. The door in the vision had been sealed with a wax stamp I knew by heart, a circle of red that matched the seal on my father’s final architectural plans. I am forty-two years old, and I have spent the last six months in the study of Harrowgate Manor, a...
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