The Wistful Show
The coat hangs by the door. It is a heavy thing, woolen and dark, smelling of damp earth and old smoke. You have worn it for so long that it has ceased to be clothing and become a second skin, a armor woven against the cold that seeps into your bones. But it is no longer whole. A tear runs down the sleeve, a jagged white line that looks less like fabric and more like a fracture in bone. You...
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