The Distant Threshold
The wool coat had been mended so many times that its seams had become a topography of their own, a raised relief of scar tissue in a deep, charcoal grey that seemed to absorb the pale, slanting light of the November afternoon. It was a garment of such heavy, industrial weight that it did not drape so much as it anchored, clinging to the frame of Elias Thorne with a gravity that spoke of years...
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