The Distant Summer
The wool coat hung on the hook by the door, its brown fabric damp and faintly warm, a smell of lavender and old wool clinging to the air in a way that defied the November chill seeping through the windowpanes. I held the brass key to the evidence locker in my left hand, the metal biting into my palm, while my right hand rested on the cold steel of the desk, feeling the vibration of the radiator...
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