The Pale Door
The wool coat sat in Margot’s lap, heavy and damp. It was a thick, charcoal thing, the kind that used to swallow her whole when she was twenty-four. Now the shoulders gaped, the sleeves hung like dead limbs, and the wool had pilled into rough, gray patches that felt like dried skin against her fingers. She clutched it tighter, her knuckles white. The Greyhound bus groaned as it hit a pothole,...
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