The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-19 08:31:58 -

The rain in this place does not fall. It hangs, a thick, grey mist that tastes of iron and old pennies. I woke with my hands buried in wet wool, the fibers clumping heavy against my palms. I was holding a coat. It was brown, the color of dried blood, and it was soaked through to the lining. I knew this coat. I knew every tear in the seam, every patch where the fabric had thinned to lace. It was...

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