The Wistful Petal
The coat is red, a shade so violent it seems to bleed against the gray concrete of the cell, and you are wearing it, you are wearing it, you are wearing it, and the fabric is not cotton or wool but something that feels like skin, warm and damp and alive, clinging to your shoulders with a grip that tightens every time you try to pull it off, and you know, with a certainty that bypasses logic and...
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