The Golden Maze
The coat was red. Not a polite red. A screaming red. It hung in the window like a wound that refused to close. I watched it from the alley. Rain slicked the cobblestones. My boots leaked. I didn’t care. I cared about the thread. “Look,” I whispered. Silence answered. Old Thomas stood beside me. He smelled of woodsmoke and wet wool. He held a staff of ash wood. It tapped the ground. Tap. Tap....
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