The Wistful Saga
The coat was a thing of heavy, charcoal wool, cut in a style that had passed out of fashion three decades prior, and it hung on the back of the dining room chair with the silent, brooding dignity of a second skin that had never quite been shed. Elias Thorne stood before the full-length mirror that occupied the entire north wall of the apartment, a mirror that had belonged to his late wife,...
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