The Pale Bonsai
The coat was the first thing to betray you, though you did not know its name then. It hung in the window of the shop on Baker Street, a garment of such aggressive, pristine white that it seemed to hum against the gray London fog. It was a double-breasted wool coat, tailored with a precision that felt surgical, its buttons like polished teeth. You stood on the pavement, your own jacket thin and...
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