The Wistful Silence
The fire started in the boiler room, a sudden orange bloom in the dark. It was not a small thing. It ate the coal dust, the old rags, the grease. It climbed the iron pipes. I watched it from the catwalk, my hands steady on the railing. My heart did not beat. I am not made of flesh, or at least, not in the way that matters. I am the coat. I am the heavy wool, the brass buttons, the lining of...
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