The Wistful Grid
The coat was already in the box when you found it, folded with a precision that felt less like organization and more like a funeral rite. It was a heavy thing, charcoal wool with a lining of deep burgundy silk that had begun to wear thin at the elbows, the fabric itself a map of the years you had spent trying to be someone else. You sat on the edge of the bed, the linoleum cold against your...
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