The Pale Bridge
The coat is white, not merely light, but the absolute, blinding white of a winter that has forgotten how to end, and you are wearing it because you chose to, because it was the only thing in your study that did not smell of ink, or dust, or the slow, rotting decay of a career spent bending truth to fit the shape of a grant. You remember the day you bought it, a decade ago perhaps, or a...
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