The Faded Guest
The coat was red. Not the bright, screaming red of a stop sign, but the deep, arterial red of a wound that refuses to close. It hung on the hook by the door. It had always been there. It had been there before Arthur arrived. It had been there when the rain started. It would be there when the rain stopped. Arthur touched the sleeve. The wool was thin. It had worn through at the elbows. The...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews