The Wistful Show
The coat is too heavy for the November air, yet you wear it like a second skin, a leaden shroud that smells of damp wool and old smoke. You are standing in the center of the requisition hall, a vast, cavernous space where the vaulted ceilings disappear into shadows and the floorboards creak under the weight of history. You are a Major, or at least you wear the rank on your collar, but the title...
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