The Distant Affair
The rain against the window of the archive room was not a sound but a frequency, a low-humming static that seemed to vibrate in the teeth. I sat in the high-backed leather chair, the one reserved for the senior analysts, and stared at the coat. It was a charcoal wool overcoat, size forty-two, dry-cleaned and pressed with a precision that spoke of a life meticulously curated. It hung on the...
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