The Faded Frontier
The coat is not yours. It is hanging on the back of the chair in the hall, its lapels stiff with the dust of a decade, the fabric a dull, bruised purple that has faded to the color of old blood. You know this. You have known it for three days. You have not moved it. You have not touched it. You stand before it, and the air in the room tastes of copper and stale tea. Who left it? You look around...
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