The Wistful Asylum
The coat hung on the back of the chair by the fire, its woolen fibers matted and darkened by the damp that had seeped into the very bones of the house over the last three years, and it was this garment, this heavy and fraying thing of charcoal grey, that served as the anchor for all the things Edward Ashworth could not say, and he stood before it with his hands trembling not from cold but from...
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