The Wistful Witness
The coat hung on the hook by the door, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that seemed to absorb the light of the small, cluttered shop. Silas Thorne stood before it, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar. It was a fine garment, tailored with a precision that bordered on the sacred, but to Silas, it was merely a shell. A vessel for a life he was not yet ready to inhabit. He had...
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