The Pale Garden
The velvet coat hangs in the corner of the attic, a heavy, crimson presence that seems to absorb the thinning light of the afternoon, its fabric thick with the accumulated dust of decades and the faint, cloying scent of old wool and dried lavender, a scent that you know is not merely aromatic but alchemical, a preservative against the inevitable decay of memory and flesh alike, and as you stand...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews