The Distant Threshold
The ledger had been open for three days, and the ink on the last page had dried into a crust that flaked under Margaret’s thumb like dead skin. She counted the hours spent in the archive, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, the numbers stacking in her mind until they formed a wall she could not climb over. The air in the basement smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron, a scent...
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