The Wistful Saga
The cough starts at three in the morning, a wet, rattling sound that shakes the plaster of the hallway and makes the floorboards groan under your weight. You are forty-two, a man who has spent two decades breathing the dust of Harrow’s End, and your hands are still stained with coal, a blackness that no amount of scrubbing can lift from the whorls of your skin. You want the coat. Not a new one,...
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