The Pale Garden
The coat hung on the hook by the door, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that seemed to absorb the thin, gray light of the office. It was not merely an article of clothing; it was a vessel, a quiet, breathing witness to the hours that had bled into the stone walls of the Department of Records. Elias Thorne stood before it, his fingers trembling not with cold, but with the sheer, suffocating weight...
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