The Faded Attic
The wool of the coat had long since surrendered its integrity, pilling into a rough, grey fleece that clung to the air like a persistent, dusty fog, a textile artifact that refused to decompose despite the relentless, wet rot of the cellar floor beneath it. Margaret Holloway stood before the garment, her hands hovering in the stagnant humidity, fingers trembling not from cold but from the...
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