The Pale Protocol
The coat is gone. I look for it on the hook by the door. I look for it on the chair. I look for it in the cold air of the hallway. It is not there. It was there this morning. I remember the weight of it. I remember the smell of wool and rain. It is gone. I am writing this in the kitchen. The light is thin. It is the light of late autumn. The house is quiet. Too quiet. My father is not here. He...
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