The Distant Ghost
The coat hung on the back of my chair, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that smelled of damp earth and old paper. It was not just a coat. It was Margaret. She had worn it the last time she saw me, in the hospital room where the air tasted of antiseptic and failure, and now it occupied the space where her voice should have been. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a tenured professor of history in a...
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