The Distant Summer
The coat was not merely wool; it was a history of silence, a heavy, charcoal-gray thing that had once belonged to her mother and before that, perhaps, to a woman whose name had been erased by the sheer weight of expectation. It sat on the back of a mahogany chair in the antechamber of the Sterling Foundation, a place where the air was scrubbed clean of dust and dissent alike, where the power to...
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