The Threshold of Darkness The voice that brought the news arrived before the sirens. Inside the phone, there was a hum as if rising from the bottom of a distant well; syllables foamed and scattered, then rejoined, condensing in Evelyn’s ear into a single word: “Accident.” In that moment, the world split in two. On one side, the old world where words still carried meaning; on the other, the new world where no word had any weight left. Between the two, a thin yet impassable membrane was stretched. The windows of the house shivered with Long Island’s salty wind. November lowered evening early and set the streetlamps out like yellow islands. Outside, the children’s laughter had long since faded, replaced by a deep hum rising from the seabed. The kitchen’s ceramic floor was the last remnant of reality under Evelyn’s feet: cold, flat, indisputable. She set her hand on the counter; the veins of the marble ran through her like waterways. “Accident,” she said to herself; her lips couldn’t carry the word, the sound broke off halfway. Then she tried once more: “Accident.” This time the word crumbled in her mouth and turned to dust. The doorbell rang. When she