The Wistful Skyline
The wool coat hung on the hook by the door, a heavy, charcoal-colored silhouette against the pale plaster wall, and I could not look at it without feeling the weight of its absence on my own shoulders. It was a garment of significant thickness, woven with a kind of dense, silent integrity that suggested permanence, a thing that did not fray or fade so easily in the light. For three years, it...
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