The Distant Garden
The coat was red. Not a bright red, but a deep, arterial crimson that seemed to drink the light in our hallway. It belonged to me, though I cannot say when I had taken it from the rack. It felt heavy on my shoulders, a leaden weight that pulled my spine down into the floorboards. I was seven. I remember the texture of the wool, coarse and itchy, smelling of lavender and something older,...
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