The Pale Meridian
You are standing in the break room. The air smells of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. It is a smell that has settled into your lungs, your clothes, your skin. You are wearing the coat. It is a heavy wool thing, dark gray, once tailored but now stretched thin at the elbows. The lining is frayed. A loose thread hangs from the left cuff. You hold it between your fingers. You pull. It snaps....
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