The Wistful Campus
The coat was red. Not the bright scarlet of a cardinal’s robe or the festive wrap of a holiday market. It was the deep, arterial red of a wound that would not close. It hung on the hook by the front door of the small, damp house in Harrow Gate. It had been there for three years. It had been there for three years before Thomas arrived. It had been there when he left. It was still there. Thomas...
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