The Wistful Ashes
The coat you wear is not merely wool and thread, but a second skin that has absorbed the scent of your husband’s tobacco and the metallic tang of the city’s rain, a garment so intimate with your history that to remove it would be to shed a layer of your own soul. You stand on the platform of Station Four, the air thick with the humidity of a summer that never quite cools, watching the steam...
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