The Faded Root

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2026-08-18 12:16:02 -

The Faded Root

The rain came down like a curtain of iron needles. It did not soak. It pierced. I held the bundle tight against my chest. It was small. No larger than a loaf of bread. Inside lay the only thing my father had left me. A coat. Not a coat of wool, or leather, or silk. A coat made of shadows. Or so they said. My mother had wrapped it in oilcloth. The cloth was slick. It smelled of salt and old...

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