The Wistful Skyline
The coat was wool, heavy and dark as a bruise against the pale, soot-stained walls of the archive. It had been worn by Thomas for forty years, its elbows patched, its collar stiffened by decades of rain and the particular, acidic dampness of the library’s basement stacks. To anyone else, it was merely a garment, a barrier against the chill of the industrial era. To Thomas, it was the skin of...
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