The Faded Photograph
The button was gone. Just a hole. Small. Dark. A void in the wool. I held the coat against the light. The thread was frayed. I could see the weave. The structure was compromised. Mara stood by the window. Her back was to me. She was looking out at the yard. The grass was dead. Brown. Dry. "You found it?" she asked. Her voice was flat. Clinical. "I found the coat," I said. "The button is...
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