The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-25 13:50:44 -

My hands were slick with the grease of the unopened parcel at the customs house, the wax seal cracked but the contents still hidden beneath the brown paper, when I heard the brakes scream from the Ferry Slip, one hundred and twenty-six of the Ferry Slip, a sound like a bone snapping under a boot. I am Brendan Halloran, fifty-two years old, a displaced persons registrar who has spent three...

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