The Pale Protocol
The coat was brown. That was the problem. It was a heavy wool thing, thick as river mud, with buttons that looked like dead eyes. I wore it every day. Every single day for thirty years. It had hung in the hall of the old house, the one with the peeling paint and the drafty windows, while I sat at the kitchen table. My sister, Elena, hated it. She said it smelled of dust and old smoke. She said...
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