The Distant Threshold
The smudge was no larger than a lentil. It sat on the final page of the Prime Minister’s private diary, a dark, irregular blotch in the margin where the ink had long since faded to the color of weak tea. I held the book under the magnifying lamp, my breath shallow, the air in the archive tasting of dust and old paper. My hands, usually steady enough to bind a spine, trembled against the leather...
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