The Distant Threshold
The heavy woolen coat that hung on the back of the iron chair in the center of the sealed observation room was not merely an article of clothing, but a living thing, a second skin woven from the very essence of the man who had worn it, and for thirty years it had absorbed the silence of the war, the damp chill of the trench, and the metallic tang of blood that had soaked into the lining so...
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