The Distant Threshold
Act I You would remember the dust in the Vane Estate library long before you remembered the cold, a fine, gray powder that settled on your tongue and tasted of old paper and iron. It was 1924, the spring of late frosts that killed the buds before they could open, and you stood in the center of the room, a forty-year-old trade union checker named Homer Ledbetter, holding a ledger that felt...
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