The Faded Dust
The coat hangs on the hook. It is black. It is heavy. You look at it. It looks at you. The wool is worn thin at the elbows. The buttons are tarnished. You do not touch it. You are a soldier. You know weight. You know how to carry it. This coat is not yours. It belongs to the dead. Or perhaps it belongs to the future. The distinction is academic. The air in the room is stale. It smells of dust...
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