The Pale Altar
The coat was a mistake, or perhaps it was the only honest thing in the building, a heavy, woolen thing of dark grey that had seen better decades, now hanging on a brass hook in the corridor of the Department of Internal Integrity, a place that smelled of stale tobacco, wet wool, and the metallic tang of old fear. You stood before it, your fingers tracing the fraying edge of the left cuff, where...
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