The Wistful Show
Elias, stop fidgeting. The coat is not a person, it cannot comfort you, and it certainly does not belong on the chair in the middle of the living room. The smell of the closet had seeped through the walls all night, a musty tang of old wool and mothballs that clung to the back of his throat. He rubbed his eyes, the sandpaper grit of exhaustion still there, and looked at the velvet. It was...
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