The Wistful Mountain
The coat was a heavy thing, a coat of deep, unyielding charcoal wool that had seen better days and certainly better men. It belonged to Elias Thorne, a man of forty-three years who possessed the sort of sharp, angular features that one might find etched into the spines of obscure academic texts, and who held this garment not merely as a shield against the damp London fog, but as a second skin,...
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