The Pale Meridian
You are standing in the center of the dining room, which is too large for the silence that has settled over it, and the air smells of burnt sugar and wet wool, and you are wearing the coat, the one your mother made, the one that is not merely fabric but a second skin, a thing that breathes and weeps and remembers every hand that has touched it, and you are trying to remember why you are here,...
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