The wool coat sat on the chair. It was my father’s. It smelled of wet stone and woodsmoke, a scent so old it had become a kind of silence. I touched the lining. The fabric was thin. It had been thin for years. I remembered the day we left. The rain was not water. It was ink. It stained the cobblestones black. My father walked ahead. He did not look back. I followed. My feet were bare. The cold was a living thing. It bit my ankles. It climbed my shins.

We entered the town of Oakhaven. The houses were made of bone. The windows were eyes. They blinked slowly. The air was thick. It tasted of copper. My father stopped. He pointed to a shop. The sign hung above the door. It was a piece of cloth. It fluttered in the wind. There was no writing. Only a shape. A circle. A hole in the middle.

He went in. I stayed out. I watched the door close. The wood groaned. It sounded like a bone breaking. I waited. The minutes stretched. They became hours. The sun did not move. It hung low in the sky. It was the color of a bruise. I felt a pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was sudden. I gasped. I fell to my knees. The cobblestones were cold. They seeped through my skin.

Then, the door opened. My father came out. He looked different. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He held the coat. He held it against his chest. He did not speak. He walked past me. He did not see me. He walked into the dark. I called out. My voice was small. It was lost in the wind. I ran after him. I could not catch him. He vanished into the mist.

I was alone. The coat was still on the chair in my memory. No, it was in my hand. I had picked it up. When? I did not know. I was holding it. The wool was wet. It was heavy. I put it on. It fit. It fit too well. It felt like a second skin. It felt like a prison. I looked at my hands. They were my father’s hands. They were large. They were rough. The knuckles were swollen. I tried to move them. They did not obey. They were stiff. They were frozen.

I walked back to the shop. The bone houses watched me. The eye-windows narrowed. I entered the shop. The interior was dark. The air was stale. There was a counter. It was made of wood. It was black. Behind the counter sat a man. He was small. He was hunched. He wore a grey robe. He had no face. Where his face should have been, there was only smooth skin. Like a doll. Like a stone.

He looked at me. I felt a pull. A tug in my stomach. I looked down. The coat was glowing. A faint light. It was blue. It was cold. The man stood up. He moved slowly. He walked around the counter. He approached me. He smelled of dust. He smelled of old paper. He reached out. He touched the coat. His fingers were long. They were pale. He pulled. He pulled the coat from my body. It tore. It ripped. I screamed. But no sound came out. My mouth was open. My throat was empty.

He held the coat. He unfolded it. He shook it. Dust rose. It swirled in the air. It formed shapes. Faces. I saw my mother. She was smiling. She was crying. I saw my sister. She was young. She was running. I saw my father. He was old. He was dying. The faces faded. They dissolved into dust. The man folded the coat. He put it back on the counter. He looked at me. He smiled. I could not see his smile. I only felt it. It was cold. It was sharp.

He pointed to the door. The door was open. Beyond it was the street. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. The sun was gone. The sky was black. I walked out. I walked into the dark. I walked for miles. I did not know where I was. I walked until my feet bled. I walked until my legs gave out. I fell. The ground was soft. It was earth. It was wet. I lay there. I looked up. The stars were coming out. They were bright. They were close. They looked like eyes.

I remembered the coat. I remembered the weight. I remembered the fit. I realized I did not have it on. I was naked. I was cold. I was afraid. I sat up. I looked at my hands. They were my hands. They were small. They were smooth. They were mine. I was not my father. I was not him. I was me. But I was not me. I was someone else. I was a ghost. I was a memory. I was a mistake.

I walked back. I did not know how. I found the shop. The bone houses were still there. The eye-windows were closed. I entered. The man was there. He was sitting. He was waiting. He did not look up. He knew I was there. He always knew. He pointed to the counter. The coat was there. It was dry. It was clean. It was whole.

I picked it up. I put it on. It fit. It fit perfectly. It felt warm. It felt safe. I closed my eyes. I felt a pull. A tug. I opened my eyes. I was in the street. The rain was falling. It was ink. It was black. My father was walking ahead. He was wearing the coat. He was wearing my coat. He did not look back. I followed. My feet were bare. The cold was a living thing. It bit my ankles. It climbed my shins.

I caught up to him. I touched his shoulder. He stopped. He turned. He looked at me. His face was my face. My father’s face was my face. I looked at his hands. They were my hands. I looked at his eyes. They were my eyes. He opened his mouth. He spoke. But I could not hear. I only saw the movement. I only felt the vibration. It was in my chest. It was in my bones.

He handed me the coat. He took it off. He held it out. His hands were shaking. His face was crumpling. It was folding. It was disappearing. I took the coat. It was heavy. It was wet. I put it on. It fit. It fit too well. He was gone. He was not there. There was only the air. There was only the rain. There was only the street.

I looked at the coat. I looked at the lining. I saw the dust. I saw the shapes. I saw my mother. I saw my sister. I saw my father. They were all there. They were all in the wool. They were all in the thread. I was holding them. I was holding the past. I was holding the future. I was holding the circle. The hole in the middle.

I walked away. I walked into the mist. The mist was thick. It was white. It was blinding. I could not see. I could only feel. I felt the weight of the coat. I felt the cold of the air. I felt the pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was sudden. I gasped. I fell to my knees. The cobblestones were cold. They seeped through my skin.

The shop was there. The bone houses were there. The eye-windows were open. They were watching. I stood up. I walked to the shop. I entered. The man was there. He was small. He was hunched. He had no face. He looked at me. He smiled. He pointed to the door. The door was open. Beyond it was the street. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. The sun was gone. The sky was black.

I walked out. I walked into the dark. I walked for miles. I did not know where I was. I walked until my feet bled. I walked until my legs gave out. I fell. The ground was soft. It was earth. It was wet. I lay there. I looked up. The stars were coming out. They were bright. They were close. They looked like eyes.

I remembered the coat. I remembered the weight. I remembered the fit. I realized I did not have it on. I was naked. I was cold. I was afraid. I sat up. I looked at my hands. They were my hands. They were small. They were smooth. They were mine. I was not my father. I was not him. I was me. But I was not me. I was someone else. I was a ghost. I was a memory. I was a mistake.

I walked back. I found the shop. The man was there. He was waiting. He pointed to the counter. The coat was there. It was dry. It was clean. It was whole. I picked it up. I put it on. It fit. It fit perfectly. It felt warm. It felt safe. I closed my eyes. I felt a pull. A tug. I opened my eyes. I was in the street. The rain was falling. It was ink. It was black.

My father was walking ahead. He was wearing the coat. He was wearing my coat. He did not look back. I followed. My feet were bare. The cold was a living thing. It bit my ankles. It climbed my shins. I caught up to him. I touched his shoulder. He stopped. He turned. He looked at me. His face was my face. My father’s face was my face.

He handed me the coat. He took it off. He held it out. His hands were shaking. His face was crumpling. It was folding. It was disappearing. I took the coat. It was heavy. It was wet. I put it on. It fit. It fit too well. He was gone. He was not there. There was only the air. There was only the rain. There was only the street.

I looked at the coat. I looked at the lining. I saw the dust. I saw the shapes. I saw my mother. I saw my sister. I saw my father. They were all there. They were all in the wool. They were all in the thread. I was holding them. I was holding the past. I was holding the future. I was holding the circle. The hole in the middle.

I walked away. I walked into the mist. The mist was thick. It was white. It was blinding. I could not see. I could only feel. I felt the weight of the coat. I felt the cold of the air. I felt the pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was sudden. I gasped. I fell to my knees. The cobblestones were cold. They seeped through my skin.

The shop was there. The bone houses were there. The eye-windows were open. They were watching. I stood up. I walked to the shop. I entered. The man was there. He was small. He was hunched. He had no face. He looked at me. He smiled. He pointed to the door. The door was open. Beyond it was the street. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. The sun was gone. The sky was black.

I walked out. I walked into the dark. I walked for miles. I did not know where I was. I walked until my feet bled. I walked until my legs gave out. I fell. The ground was soft. It was earth. It was wet. I lay there. I looked up. The stars were coming out. They were bright. They were close. They looked like eyes.

I remembered the coat. I remembered the weight. I remembered the fit. I realized I did not have it on. I was naked. I was cold. I was afraid. I sat up. I looked at my hands. They were my hands. They were small. They were smooth. They were mine. I was not my father. I was not him. I was me. But I was not me. I was someone else. I was a ghost. I was a memory. I was a mistake.

I walked back. I found the shop. The man was there. He was waiting. He pointed to the counter. The coat was there. It was dry. It was clean. It was whole. I picked it up. I put it on. It fit. It fit perfectly. It felt warm. It felt safe. I closed my eyes. I felt a pull. A tug. I opened my eyes. I was in the street. The rain was falling. It was ink. It was black.