The Faded Bouquet
The coat was heavy. Wool. Dark as a bruise. It hung on the back of the chair by the door. It had belonged to my brother. Or so I believed. I stood in the hall. The floor was stone. Cold. It bit through my boots. I looked at the coat. It was worn. The elbows were thin. The fabric faded. Not clean. Worn. By use. By time. By him. I am a soldier. I serve the Crown. Or the State. The name does not...
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