The Golden Suspect
The coat was not merely a garment; it was a living architecture of guilt, a heavy, woolen shroud that I had sewn with my own trembling fingers, stitching in the very fabric of my sins so that they might keep me warm in the cold, indifferent wilderness of my own making. I wore it every day, even in the scorching heat of the mid-afternoon, for the weight of it was the only thing that reminded me...
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