The Wistful Saga
The coat was heavy. It was wool. It was thick. It smelled of lanolin and old blood. I held it up. The light caught the weave. It was fraying. The edges were weak. The buttons were loose. One was gone. The thread hung like a limp tongue. I looked at the lining. It was gray. It was thin. It had stretched. It had worn. It was mine. I had worn it for years. It was my skin. It was my armor. Now it...
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