The Pale Path
The heavy wool of the coat caught on the latch as Elias pulled it off, the friction a small, dry whisper in the hollow of the hall. He held the garment up, the dark fabric absorbing the grey light from the window, and for a moment he did not move. It was his father’s coat, a thing of charcoal wool and brass buttons that had seen forty years of rain and three different regimes of rule. It...
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