The Faded Bouquet
The coat is heavy, heavier than it should be for a garment of wool and thread, and it clings to your shoulders like a second skin that has forgotten how to let go, a suffocating embrace woven from the grey hairs of a century and the sweat of men who no longer exist, pressing its cold, damp weight against your neck while you walk the endless, heath-scarred road that cuts through the moors of the...
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