The Faded Attic
The coat is still hanging by the door, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that has long since absorbed the scent of damp stone and old tobacco. It is not a coat for walking anymore, not really. It is a shell, a husk that remains after the moth has eaten through the lining and the wind has stripped away the last of its dignity. You see it every morning as you pass the hallway mirror, that dark,...
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