The bell rang. Not a church bell. A shop bell. Brass and bright. It shook the air in the glass shop.
Silas stared at the door. It was closed. He had locked it. He was sure.
"Who's there?" he called. His voice was thin. It scraped the dust.
No answer. Only the hum. The air hummed. A low, golden hum.
Silas turned. The workbench was empty. The lamp was dead. But the glass was glowing. A single...
The coat was red.
It was a violent red. A color that did not belong in a place of gray linoleum and fluorescent hum. It hung on my arm like a dead bird. I had bought it with money I did not have. I had stolen it from a rack in a shop that was closed. The glass was broken. The alarm had been cut. I did not feel like a thief. I felt like a man who had found a key to a door he had always been...
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