The Faded Root
The coat was the first thing to go, though only in the way that a soul leaves a body in the final hours, slowly and without sound. It had been a heavy thing, woven of wool so dark it seemed to absorb the grey light of the town, a garment that fit Edward Ashworth with the precision of a second skin. For forty years, it had shielded him from the damp cold of the mill district, from the sharp...
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