The Golden Crossing
The coat did not fit me. It was too large, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips like the flapping wings of a dead bird, and the fabric, a heavy wool of indeterminate grey, smelled of wet stone and old iron. I had found it draped over the back of a chair in the parlor of the house where I had been confined for three days, a house that seemed to exist in a crease of time I could not name. There...
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