The Wistful Saga
The coat was red. Not a bright, festive red, but the deep, arterial crimson of a wound that has stopped bleeding. It hung on the back of a chair in the center of the room, defying the gray damp that seeped through the windowpane of Elias Thorne’s apartment in Harrowgate. The town was small, built on a ridge of slate, where the fog rolled in from the moors like a living thing, erasing the edges...
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