The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-19 09:43:59 -

The coat was brown. It had been black once, perhaps in the life of another man. Now it was the color of wet clay. It hung on Elias Thorne’s shoulders like a second skin. Or a shroud. He did not know which. It was heavy. It smelled of damp wool and old tobacco. He wore it every day. Every day for ten years. He stood in the antechamber. The floor was marble. Cold. It bit through his thin shoes....

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