The Faded Road
The coat had begun to unravel at the seams, not in the way that fabric does when it is old and tired, but in the way that truth does when it is pressed too hard against the surface of things, pulling threads loose until the garment is nothing more than a suggestion of itself, a ghost of the wool and the dye and the labor that had gone into its making, and I wore it still, because to take it off...
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