The Pale Altar
You dream of a coat, not the garment itself but the absence of it, a hollow shape carved into the air where a person used to stand, a silhouette of wool and thread that haunts the peripheral vision of a waking world that insists on being solid, tangible, and utterly indifferent to the ghosts of those who have left, and you wake in the narrow bed of your rental room in Harrowgate with the taste...
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