The Distant Threshold
The coat was red. It had always been red. Miles stood in the center of the kitchen, staring at the garment draped over the back of a dining chair. It was a wool peacoat, heavy and dark crimson, looking like a fresh wound against the beige wall. He had not put it there. He knew that. He remembered hanging his own gray jacket on the hook by the door. He remembered the cold. He remembered the...
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