The Faded Sutra
The coat hangs on the hook. It is red. You see it every day. It was yours once. Or rather, it belonged to the woman you used to be. The one who thought she had a voice. The one who believed that if she shouted loud enough, the world would stop to listen. That woman is gone. She died in a hospital bed in October, or maybe she just left. It is hard to tell the difference here in Millhaven. The...
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