The Distant Threshold
The ink on the incident report was still wet, a dark smear against the pale manila paper, when Elias Thorne realized the weight of the object in his left hand was entirely absent. He stood in the center of his quarters at the Blackwater Customs Post, the fog pressing its cold, damp fingers against the single pane of glass, and held his right hand out as if expecting to feel the familiar, cold...
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