The Wistful Show
The coat was there again, draped over my shoulders like a shroud that had been soaked in something older than rain. It was not wool, nor leather, nor any fabric I could name, but a tattered, blood-stained thing that seemed to weave itself into the air of the abandoned theater, heavy with the static of a thousand unspoken confessions. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four, and I have spent the last six...
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