The Distant Threshold
My hands were shaking as I tried to align the torn edge of the ledger page with the binding, the paper brittle and yellowed in the grey light of the station office. I had been a constable in Ashford for nine years, long enough to know that silence was the only currency that never devalued, yet here I was, holding a piece of evidence that felt like a splinter in my palm. The Miller boy’s arrest...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews