The Faded Chronicle
The coat is brown, and it is heavy, and you are wearing it now, even though the air in the hall is stifling with the breath of a hundred men who have not slept, and the scent of wet wool and old tobacco hangs in the beams of light that cut through the high, dust-choked windows, and you keep your hands inside the pockets because if you take them out they will shake, and if they shake, the man...
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