The Wistful Campus
The coat hangs on the hook by the door. It is a heavy thing, wool and tweed, the color of dried blood and old earth. You remember the weight of it on your shoulders as a boy. You remember the smell of the coal dust that clung to the lining, a gritty, metallic scent that never quite washed out. Now, at thirty, you stand in the hallway of the empty house, looking at it. It is just a coat. A piece...
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