The Wistful Skyline
The coat was not merely a garment but a second skin, woven from a fabric so heavy and dark that it seemed to absorb the light around it, a velvet shroud that Marguerite had worn for thirty years through the damp, soot-stained winters of the industrial city, a garment that had once been bright but had faded under the relentless friction of labor and sorrow into a deep, bruised purple that...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews