The Faded Photograph
The fire started in the lining, a slow, hot breath of destruction that I felt against my chest before I saw the first ember. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the days had bled together in the amber haze of my shop, a place that smelled permanently of beeswax, old wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from the preservation lamps. I was working on a double-breasted wool overcoat, a...
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