The Distant Threshold
The tin was lighter than I remembered, the brass lid worn to a dull, skin-like sheen by years of Thomas’s thumb. I sat in the sparse office of the Oakhaven Police Station, the radiator hissing its thin, metallic breath against the November cold, and held the container in my hands as if it might still hold the weight of his life. It was November 1912, and the mist outside clung to the brickwork...
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