The Wistful Saga
The wool coat hangs in the dark, a heavy grey ghost against the peeling wallpaper of the barracks room. You remember the weight of it, the way the fabric had stiffened with the sweat of a dozen men who had worn it before you. It is not your coat, not truly, but the institution has branded it with your initials, stitched in white thread that is already fraying. You wake with the taste of iron in...
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