The Wistful Voyage
The wool coat sat on the chair, heavy and dark as a wet stone. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the cuffs, pulling the fabric tight against his wrists. It was a size ten, cut for a woman’s frame, and on his broad, stooped shoulders it looked less like clothing and more like a shroud. He was fifty-eight years old, a retired archivist who had spent three...
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