The Pale Fracture
The coat is wrong. You know it is wrong. The wool is too fine, the cut too sharp for a man who spends his days sorting paper in the basement of the Community Hall. It belongs to someone else. Or it belongs to the future you are supposed to be, the one the Council promised. You button it to the neck. The fabric smells of lavender and iron. It is a smell that does not exist in the gray air of...
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