The Distant Threshold
The house does not care if you are looking. This was the first thing Erika Lehmann learned when she stepped back into the settlement house on the edge of the fen, the air heavy with machine oil and damp wool. She was forty-two, a match factory inspector by trade, though her hands had long since forgotten the rhythm of the loom and remembered only the trembling of her own pulse. The walls of the...
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