The Distant Wound
The coat was red. It was the only red thing left in the city. The rest was gray. The smoke was gray. The ash was gray. The faces were gray. I held the coat. It was warm. It had been warm for days. It should have been cold. It should have been dead. I was running. My lungs burned. The air tasted of iron. I ran through the streets of Oakhaven. The buildings were skeletons. Windows were black...
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