The Wistful Atlas
The coat was already damp when you left the train station in Harrowgate, a heavy, charcoal wool thing that had once belonged to your brother, Julian. It smelled of stale tobacco and the specific, metallic chill of the sea, a scent that had seeped into the fibers over decades of wear and had never fully faded, no matter how many times you had washed it. You pulled the collar up against the...
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