The Wistful Asylum
The wool coat had been her grandfather’s, then her father’s, and now it was hers, a heavy gray mantle that smelled of dust and dried lavender. It hung in the hallway of the small stone cottage, its buttons worn smooth by generations of hands, the fabric thinning at the elbows where the arms had rested against the doorframe for decades. Elara touched the sleeve, feeling the fraying threads...
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