The Faded Chronicle
The heavy, wet wool of the trench coat sits on your shoulders like a second skin that has forgotten how to breathe, the fabric stiff with the salt air of the Pacific Northwest and the lingering, metallic scent of the rain that has been falling for three days straight, a relentless, gray curtain that erases the horizon and turns the world into a blurred, monochromatic smear of asphalt and dying...
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