The Faded Frequency
October 1924. The wool coat is heavy. Too heavy for the season. It sits on the rack in the lobby of the Whitmore Estate, a black rectangle against the pale marble. I look at it. It looks back. That is the trouble with things. They remember. I do not. Or rather, I forget on purpose. Arthur is waiting. He always waits. He stands by the fireplace, his back to the room. His shoulders are square. He...
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