The Golden Cellar
The coat is heavy. It is a deep, absorbing charcoal, the kind of fabric that drinks in the light of the kitchen and gives back only a dull, flat shadow. You hang it on the hook by the back door, right next to the calendar that your father, before he stopped speaking to the world, used to mark with red circles for his medication days. The wool has stretched over the years, sagging at the...
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