The Wistful Saga
The bell rang. You heard it before you saw them. A bronze throat clearing in the thin air. You were sitting on the cold stone step, your hands wrapped around the hem of the grey coat. It was heavy. Wool. It had been your mother’s, then your father’s, then yours. The fabric was thinning at the elbows. The elbows were bare patches now, where the skin beneath chafed red against the wind. “Boy,” a...
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