The Faded Masquerade
The coat hung on the back of the chair, a heavy, charcoal thing that smelled of cedar and old tobacco, and I stared at it as if it were a wound in the fabric of the room. It was my father’s coat, the one he wore to the mill every day for forty years until the day the sky turned black and the machines screamed, and now it sat there in my sparse apartment in Harrowgate, a silent testament to a...
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