The Faded Photograph
"The collar is wrong, is it not?" You say this to no one in particular, or perhaps to the ghost of the man who owned the coat, the heavy woolen thing that now sits draped over the back of your chair in the cramped, gas-lit office of the Municipal Archive. The air smells of damp paper, of the metallic tang of rusted filing cabinets, and of the faint, cloying sweetness of the lavender water your...
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