The Wistful Voyage
The coat hangs on the hook by the door. It is heavy. Wool. Grey. It smells of damp earth and old tobacco. You look at it. It looks back. Or you think it does. The thread is loose at the cuff. A single fraying end, white against the dark. You pick at it. It pulls. You let go. It snaps back. You are in the house. The big house. The one your father built. The one you inherited. The walls are...
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