The Golden Master
The coat was not merely wool; it was an architecture of silence, woven from a thread that hummed with a frequency only you could hear. It sat on the hanger in the back of your shop on Bleecker Street, a garment that seemed to absorb the fluorescent light of the city rather than reflect it. You were a tailor, or so the license on the wall claimed, but you were truly a curator of secrets, a man...
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