The Wistful Show
The inspector’s coat, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that had once belonged to a man of considerable means, now hung on the back of a wooden chair in the center of the room, its buttons polished to a dull, oily sheen by years of anxious hands. It was not merely an article of clothing but a vessel, a container for the ghosts of cases closed and unclosed, and for the inspector, it was the only...
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