The Pale Altar
The coat was white. It had been white when he bought it, and white when he left for the war, and white when he came home to find the house standing, though the people inside it had changed. Or perhaps he had changed. The wool was soft, a fabric that seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. It was the only thing in his life that had not been stained by the mud of the trenches or the...
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