The Distant Threshold
Who asked you to hold the stone? I am Jelena Markovic, and I am writing this from the ward at the St. Nicholas Charity Hospital, where the air tastes of boiled wool and iodine. My left hand is in a cast, the plaster stiff and white against the grey sheet, a shape that is no longer quite mine. It has been three days since the mill at the river bend collapsed, and the silence in this room is so...
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