The Wistful Ashes
The coat was black, heavy with the dust of a decade, and it fit Elias like a second skin that had grown over his bones while he slept. It was a wool garment of such specific, archaic cut that it seemed to belong to a man who had died in the last century, yet it clung to his modern, emaciated frame with an intimacy that bordered on violation. In the city of Veridia, where the sky was a...
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