The Wistful Skyline
The coat is wool, charcoal grey, and it smells of damp earth and old tobacco. It is yours. Or rather, it was yours. It sits on the back of the chair in the waiting room of the municipal office, a heavy, slumped thing that looks less like clothing and more like a shed skin. You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to be in the town of Harrowgate at all, let alone in the shadow of...
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