The Pale Tower
The wool coat hangs on the back of the chair, a heavy, charcoal-gray silhouette against the pale, institutional white of the wall, and it is the only thing in this windowless interrogation room that possesses a soul. You sit across from it, not looking at the man who has brought you here, but at the fabric, tracing the faint, worn thread of the shoulder seam with your eyes, knowing that within...
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